Three Cases
by In the House
Summary: The next installment in the Pranks universe.  House finds himself having to juggle three significant cases simultaneously, but Cuddy's day is going even worse.  Huddy, Wilson friendship, Jensen.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Don't own House. I do own Jensen. And Abby. :)

Rating: T

A/N: Here we go on the next roller coaster in the Pranks universe. In order, they are When Pranks Go Wrong, Desperado, You Raise Me Up, Onslaught, Equinox, Equinox Revisited, Medical Homicide, Sick Day, and Two Sessions. Please note that my schedule work and otherwise has recently changed, and things thus got more complicated. Don't expect updates as quickly on this one as my standard. I am not a doctor; research has been done, but that's all I can do. Sorry for any errors. There's a lot of medical in this one, but it's the psychological interplay that's much more the point of it all. I'm also not an assassin. Research has been done, etc. Making somebody truly a few fries short of a Happy Meal also helps in avoiding assassin characterization errors. If you are a successful doctor or a successful assassin, just grin at any procedural errors you spot and remind yourself from your computer how much better you could have done it (or from your jail cell, if not so successful in your past life). The President of the United States is fictional. The one in this story, at least. I do not wish any bodily illness or injury upon the real president, although I won't be voting for him in 2012.

Enjoy!

(H/C)

_Late May_

"I have a favor to ask."

To that point, it had been a fairly routine session between House and Jensen, though House _had_ thought the psychiatrist was exceptionally focused today, as if keeping his mind off something else through his work, an exercise House had used himself at times. Now as the session wound down at the end, though, Jensen abruptly shifted gears. House could almost hear the change in the engine, feel the transmission engage. Jensen suddenly wasn't the calm, professional psychiatrist anymore, simply a man who looked somewhat worried.

House couldn't help tensing up a bit as apprehension fought curiosity. Okay, he _did_ owe Jensen quite a bit by this point, but still, having the score card abruptly pulled out and laid on the table by someone who had often encouraged him that not everybody carried relationship score cards was a bit unsettling. What would be the price tag demanded here? He knew he had no choice but to pay it. "What do I have to do?" he asked.

Jensen studied him, puzzled momentarily - another sign of his internal perturbation - then suddenly understanding. "Purely as a favor. Not payback, not required. You don't have any obligation. I'm just asking as a friend, not checking some personal balance sheet on who owes whom."

House shook his head slightly. "You must be pretty hard up for friends if you're counting me in that category."

"Actually, I consider myself quite rich in them," Jensen replied sincerely. House blinked, absorbing that. "Don't you want to at least hear what it is?"

Curiosity surged to the forefront. This _was_ an anomaly; Jensen didn't routinely try to use him for his own ends. "Okay, shoot."

"I'd like you to see Mark."

"Medically, you mean?" Jensen nodded. "What's wrong with him?"

"I'm not sure. But I'm sure that _something_ is."

"What does he say? What are the symptoms?"

"He says there aren't any and that I'm just imagining it."

"Ah, so you're calling in a favor - purely non score card variety - on _both_ of us."

"Right," the psychiatrist replied.

This ought to be fun. Patient and doctor both there by obligation, under pressure from external factors. "Has he seen his own doctor about these nonexistent symptoms?"

"No. He gets annual checkups, last one was fine. It was eight months ago."

"What exactly are these imaginary symptoms that you see and he doesn't?" House asked.

"He just doesn't _feel_ right," Jensen said. "I can't put my finger on it, but something is off. Specifically physically."

"Are you two routinely tuned into each other?" House knew that some identical twins had an undefined connection. That was scientifically proven, even if not entirely explained.

"Yes. I knew when he had appendicitis before he did. He knew when I had that bad stomach bug several months ago and called to check on me that weekend. He also knew something was wrong the night Melissa filed for divorce; he called to check on me even before I called him. He simply hasn't seemed like himself the last few weeks. I went to see him this last weekend just to check things out in person, even though we normally talk at least weekly anyway, usually more. We're good friends. Actually seeing him, I'm sure of it. There is _something_ off, but I can't define it any better than that."

"Where does he live, anyway?"

"In Albany."

House grinned. "And he's willing to come clear to Princeton to see a doctor for symptoms he doesn't agree exist?"

"As a favor to me, yes. Even though he thinks it's a waste of time. He did specifically say that some time next week would work best. His wife is out of town that week on a trip with old college friends."

"And without him?" House arched an eyebrow.

"To my knowledge - and _feelings_ - they're fine. It's just one of those purely women's trip things, old girlfriends spending time together catching up. None of them are taking their husbands. But I'll agree he's using the opportunity to hide the fact from her that he's thinking of seeing a doctor at all. He doesn't want her to worry."

House was starting to get into this now. He'd never had the chance before to treat the identical twin of somebody whom he knew very well, and the opportunity for some in-depth comparing and contrasting was fascinating. Plus he did put a lot of weight into Jensen's judgment. The psychiatrist was the only person he'd ever met who was anywhere near as observant as himself. If Jensen thought something was physically wrong with his brother, he most likely was right. "Okay, I'll see him. This could be interesting."

Jensen relaxed slightly. "Thank you. What does your schedule look like that week? Do you even _have_ regular appointments?" He knew House worked strictly from the hospital, not from an outside medical office.

"Not usually. Normally, I'm just consulted on inpatient cases. Plus the internet questions, but the ones I actually see are pretty much limited to inpatients. And formerly clinic duty, but I'm off that permanently by this point for being in therapy. Cuddy gave up tracking hours with you; she said I fudged them and it was easier to just give up trying to keep it straight." House subconsciously ran a hand down his thigh, feeling the deep ache. There had been legitimate reasons, not just related to boredom, why he had hated clinic duty. The normal schedule of a doctor, going straight from appointment to appointment with that much time on his feet without breaks, was difficult for him. He was sure that had been a factor in Cuddy's clinic duty decision as she noted things living with him that she hadn't realized in full before, but he appreciated her calling it something else. "No reason why I _can't_ make an appointment, though. I'm sure we could find an exam room somewhere for a quick physical. Okay, you can give him my number."

Jensen had noted House rub his leg, but he knew better than to comment. "Thank you. I do appreciate it." He stood up, opening the implied door of escape so that House could leave promptly instead of facing gratitude.

Sure enough, House got up as quickly as he was capable of, eager to get out of the office now. "Tell him not to call tonight, though." House looked at his watch, calculating the drive back. "I have a hot date waiting for me."

Jensen smiled. "So do I." Feeling reassured already at having set House on the trail of the undefined whatever that gnawed at his instincts, he followed House out of the inner office, switching the light off. Time to go home.

(H/C)

The dean of the university was starting to wonder if the Secret Service men were even real as he watched them make yet another inspection of the big auditorium, merely their latest in a string of visits over the last few weeks. They resembled more than anything androids, he decided. Expressionless faces, search light eyes that swept the surroundings like radar. Even now, with the large room empty and the president far away, they were looking for trouble, running that program as if it were the only one they knew. He tried to imagine these men playing golf or at home with families, in bed with spouses, and he simply couldn't do it. Once again, they swept efficiently through the room, diligently looking for the risks that were not there, at least not right now.

The dean had thought at first that it was a good idea to ask the president, an alumnus from decades ago, to speak at Princeton's annual commencement. A nice shot of publicity for the University, an honor for the students. But now, watching the frenetic preparations, he was beginning to wonder if having the president as a guest of honor was more trouble than it was worth.

Too late to change plans now. But he hung a mental note to never have this bright idea again. If the president ever came again to Princeton, the dean planned to be off somewhere fishing, far away from procedures, responsibilities, security, and the men with the restless, roving eyes programmed solely for trouble. It will all be over in a few more days, he promised himself. After next week, things will get back to normal.

(H/C)

It was Damocles who in mythology had longed to try out the luxurious life of a ruler, yet who, when Dionysius agreed to allow him that life for a day, was shocked to discover a sword hanging over his head, suspended by a single horse hair. Amidst all the elements of the good life, the sword remained there, always hovering, threatening to descend and slice through the benefits of the position, killing it all at any moment.

Wilson could sympathize.

Sitting on the couch next to Sandra, his arm around her, her leaning up against him as they watched the movie, he could almost think that life was a treasure, a luxury beyond any palace he had dreamed of. The last several months had been difficult but also a miracle of discovery. To actually truly get to know someone as he had never done in any of his previous relationships, to get to know her as a person. To slowly, tentatively let her actually get to know him. To experience the process that he had always ignored, always previously just jumping off the high dive into the deep end of the pool rather than wading in gradually from the shallow end. Yes, the high dive had the exhilarating plunge, but the other way, you could appreciate every single caress of the water, feel it expanding and claiming you inch by inch as it slowly and deliciously got deeper.

It was a new world for Wilson. Yes, there had been the frustration, maddening at times, of no sex. But there was also a relationship being built on more than just sex, and he had to admit that Sandra played fair. If he hadn't had sex with anybody else in months, neither had she, and she had had pregnancy hormones to deal with. She was getting to the stage now where physical activities would have been limited anyway, but Wilson sensed that full activities would be resuming soon once they were beyond the delivery, once everything was over, once she was not pregnant and was recovered from the likely cesarean section. He was, ever so slowly, proving both to himself and her that he could change. He knew he was making substantial progress in her eyes.

Once everything was over . . .

_That_ was the sword hanging overhead, suspended on its single hair. For all of Wilson's communication efforts, for all the times that he had forced himself to stand up and say, "My name is James Wilson, and I'm an alcoholic," for all his legitimate efforts over the last several months, he also knew that the final verdict almost certainly rested on something already decided, something he couldn't change no matter how he tried. Their child had to be healthy. The odds were good, he reminded himself. But he saw too many cases of defying the odds, both positively and negatively, in his profession to trust mere figures. If this child was born with neurological problems because of his being a cheating asshole months ago, the sword would at that moment fall. He wasn't sure he could deal with having permanently maimed or even killed his son. He certainly wouldn't blame her for not being able to deal with it.

Their child _had_ to be healthy.

He looked down at Sandra's swelling belly, new life waiting to emerge. Life that _he_ had created. He had seen the child on ultrasound, had felt him move. He reached over now with his free hand, resting it lightly against her abdomen. She didn't react, and he switched his gaze up to her face and realized that she had fallen asleep against him as the neglected movie played on. Her head was on his shoulder. He looked down at her features, and his hand rubbed lightly across her belly. A tidal wave of love like he had never felt before in his life hit him, sweeping him along in its power.

He smiled, then suddenly, remembering once again, he looked up. The sword was still there.

(H/C)

Cuddy leaned back in the car and watched House drive home. She felt full to the brim at the moment not only of good food from their favorite restaurant but simply of the good life. She was married to House. She had two adorable if quite different daughters. Finally, she had the family she had always dreamed of. In spite of all the efforts of John House and drunk drivers and Patrick Chandler, the family was intact and was hers, they had come through the difficulties together, and nothing was ever going to take them away. She suddenly envied Belle the ability to purr.

House looked over as they stopped at a light. "You okay, Lisa?"

"I'm absolutely wonderful."

"You sighed."

"Did I? Well, if I did, it was a _good_ sigh, Greg."

He rolled his eyes. "So sighs come in good and bad, too. Like tears, I guess. Do women make this stuff up just to try to confuse us?"

She grinned. "Yes, it's actually a huge conspiracy."

"I _knew_ it." He started back up as the light turned green, though he did take a moment to triple check each way first, an obsessive habit that still remained even a year and a half after the accident. "So if that was a good sigh, do we still get to enjoy dessert as the final course at home tonight?"

"I can't wait," she assured him, and he sped up slightly.

Home. Going home with her husband to her family.

Life couldn't get any better than this.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for the reviews! Yes, lots of angst ahead. Cuddy angst, too. Sword still hanging overhead at the moment.

(H/C)

House was on the floor of the living room, doubled over Rachel's little piano. He felt like Schroeder on Peanuts. Slowly, deliberately, one painstaking note at a time, he ran the simple melody again, the opening phrase of one of her Disney movie songs, just a few measures. Only one finger at a time, no chords, just a straight-line melody. Nothing could be easier. "Like this. Come on, now. Your turn."

Rachel had been watching his fingers intently. She reached out now and tried to reproduce the melody, getting the first three notes, then missing. "No!" she shouted in frustration, hitting the piano. It gave a protesting clang.

House caught her hands. "It's okay, Rachel. _Everybody_ makes mistakes at first. Everybody starts off slowly."

Rachel looked back at the gleaming baby grand, reigning over the living room. "Want to _play_!" she protested.

"You want to play it on mine instead? Okay."

Rachel shook her head. "Want to _play_. Like you."

House sighed. Introducing Rachel to baby piano lessons had seemed a good idea a few months ago. The trouble was, she had far too good an example as her picture of what piano music should sound like. Naturally impetuous and impatient anyway, she sometimes seemed to think she should be able to simply skip all intervening steps and emerge as a fully matured talent. "Rachel, _nobody_ starts out playing like I do. I didn't start out there."

She stuck out her lip in a pout and looked away. Cuddy, watching them, fought back her own sigh. She had wondered if Rachel's second birthday was too young to start this, but she had already been fiercely applying the brakes to her husband for a whole year before that. If he'd had his way, Rachel would have received the piano on her first birthday. Too late to possibly take it back or simply stuff it in the closet for another year or two, so she tried presenting the other thought that had slowly been coalescing lately. "Greg, maybe you aren't the best one to be giving her lessons."

He immediately read that the wrong way, of course, with that absurd sensitivity of men, and looked away. He had been a model of patience with Rachel, trying different strategies, never demanding too much. "_Not_ because of you," Cuddy clarified. "You're doing great. I just wonder if it might be less frustrating for her to learn from someone else. With you, she's comparing all the time. Maybe she needs a different teacher."

"NO!" Rachel snapped. "Want to play with Dada." She immediately reached back out to try the melody of a few minutes ago, missed the note, and stood up, giving the piano a kick.

House closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to find Cuddy's sympathetic look on him. "This _might_ have been a mistake," he admitted grudgingly. Cuddy refrained from saying I told you so. Unfortunately, he heard her. "Oh, go ahead and say it. We both know you're thinking it anyway."

She sighed out loud that time. Yes, she loved her family, but some Saturday mornings were more exasperating than others. "I loved the fact that you wanted to share this with her, Greg. I just thought it might be too soon."

"Great, so let's return it. Or put it in a storage area until she's five. I'm _sure_ she'd never notice or object to that."

Rachel meanwhile had trotted over to the grand, looking up at the keyboard as if wondering if it held the secret that her miniature version did not. "_Play_, Dada," she demanded.

"You want to try it over there? Okay." Cuddy smiled again, realizing the statement that letting Rachel play his piano was for him. Not that Rachel ever did except under direct supervision. There were strict rules attached to his prized instrument; he couldn't help it. He started the laborious process of getting himself up off the floor, and while Cuddy discreetly did not watch (except by peripheral vision), both of his daughters immediately did. He gritted his teeth, watching them study each move as he hauled himself to his feet with all the grace of a 99-year-old.

Rachel lost interest in the piano and trotted back over to him. "Okay, Dada?"

"I'm _fine_," he said, forcing himself not to snap at her. He looked at Abby, who had been in the floor with Belle watching the piano lesson. She didn't say anything, unlike her sister, but her eyes were locked onto him, and they, too, were full of silent analysis, trying to come to her own pain scale. House quickly scrambled for another subject. "Come on, Rachel. You want to play the big piano?"

She was still watching him too closely. "No. Take a bath?" she suggested. It was a suggestion for him - Rachel would never volunteer on her part to take a bath. But she had realized over the last few months that the hot tub made his leg feel better.

Cuddy quickly looked around for any change of subject, trying to rescue her husband. The pain was slightly worse than usual today but not up to a level where immediate supplemental measures were needed. Rachel was just still getting her pain-o-meter calibrated.

Before she could change the subject, Abby changed it herself. She stood up, using the couch to help achieve her feet, then walked the few feet to Rachel's piano, sat down at it, and reached out. She flawlessly reproduced the simple, brief fragment of melody House had been trying to teach Rachel. It was the first time she had ever touched the keyboard.

House stared. Cuddy stared. Rachel, concern forgotten, surged forward. "No, Abby! That's MINE!" She pushed her sister down, away from the instrument, wrestling her into the floor, and right then, the phone rang.

Cuddy took a 1-second time-out prior to diving into the fray. "Get that, Greg," she urged.

He felt the deep ache in his thigh give an extra throb as he limped to the phone, leaving her to physically break up the fight in the floor, something else that she could no doubt do better than he could. The girls didn't often get into it, but every once in a while, Rachel would hit a frustration point and take it out on her sister. Another half of his mind was in furious analysis, though. Abby, sitting there quietly, always watching. Watching Rachel's lessons. Immediately applying them, not only with the correct notes but even with some beginner-level feeling and interpretation behind it, the first time she had ever approached the keyboard. Even while he knew she had been trying to distract him, realizing that he was getting upset even if not fully understanding why, he marveled. Maybe he had been focusing musically on the wrong daughter. Maybe it was the younger one who had the true talent.

And how on earth would he ever be able to explore that possibility without frustrating Rachel even more?

He reached the main cordless phone and picked it up, glancing at caller ID. Mark Jensen. "Hello."

"Dr. House? This is Mark Jensen." The voice was similar to Jensen's, though nowhere near the resemblance physically. Both in physical appearance and in mannerisms, the two brothers were as close as any set of twins House had ever seen. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Only a minor fight between my girls, and that's about settled." Cuddy was firmly enforcing peace, well in control of the situation.

Mark laughed. "I know how that goes. I have two myself. Son and a daughter." He dove into the enforced subject, getting the unpleasant obligation over with. "I'm supposed to make an appointment with you."

"Which you think is a total waste of time," House stated.

"Yes, I do, to be honest. Michael is just overreacting."

"Ah, so there is something there for him to be overreacting to?"

Silence for a few seconds. "No. There's nothing wrong. He's just imagining things."

That few seconds told House more than all the words had so far. Yes, there was something there, although he wasn't sure that Mark was even admitting it to himself yet. "I'm in Princeton, you know."

"Yes, I know. That will be a full day off work with the driving, but Melissa volunteered to take my kids and Cathy out for a day of fun distractions, whichever day it is. So I wouldn't have to worry about dealing with them. Yesterday was the last day of school before summer."

So Melissa had joined the conspiracy. Jensen probably had asked her for a favor - non score-card variety - as well. "And your wife is out of town, right?"

"Just left this morning." Mark sighed. "We might as well get this over with. I've got something at work that would be hard to get away from on Monday. What does your schedule look like for Tuesday?"

"_My _schedule is fine, but if you're driving to Princeton on Tuesday, give extra traffic and hassle time. The president is going to honor us with his presence. He's speaking at the University."

"You're not going to go hear him?"

House snorted. "Yeah, right. I already know that everybody lies. Learned that a long time ago. I don't need to go hear some politician to see a championship specimen in action." Mark laughed again. House rolled his eyes, thinking of the flurry of presidential preparation activity, a flurry that had peripherally involved Cuddy, which was the only reason he knew as many details as he did. PPTH was designated hospital for this visit. Wherever the president travels, the nearest major hospital is always known, its administration put on standby in advance, and all routes to it from the various presidential locations confirmed, just in case of any illness or injury.

"Well, I'm more interested in getting Michael off my back than hearing the president myself, so Tuesday would work for me. What about 11:00?"

"That would be fine. I'm on the 4th floor of the hospital, not far out of the elevator."

"Thank you, Dr. House. I'll see you then." Mark hung up, and House turned to face his family. Rachel was sitting on the couch, perfectly and uncharacteristically still, obviously in time out, and Cuddy stood firmly in front of her, one eye on her watch, the other on her husband. Abby was in the floor, eying the mini piano but not touching it, apparently having been told that she needed permission first.

"Mark Jensen," House said.

"Do you think there is anything really wrong with him, Greg?"

"Haven't even seen him yet. But there's _something_ there. I could tell in his tone. Don't think he's even admitting it to himself at this point."

"Well, I'm glad you're going to see him then. Plus, it will be interesting for you."

House grinned, looking forward again to a little comparison and contrast. "Yes, it will. Trust Jensen to ask for an interesting favor."

"Between Mark and the president, Tuesday should be quite a day. Even if the president won't actually be at PPTH, just on the campus in general." She looked at her watch again. "Okay, Rachel. You can get up now."

"Want to play the piano some more, Rachel?" House asked.

She shook her head vigorously. "Movie!" Off she galloped to the nursery and the girls' private DVD shelf, totally distracted from the piano and the fight, now on another track entirely. Cuddy watched her and smiled.

House went over and picked up Abby. He walked to the baby grand, sat down, and applied the soft pedal. "Abby, real quick, before we get into watching a movie, would you play that song for me again?"

Immediately, not thrown at all by the full-sized keyboard, she reached out and reproduced the short opening phrase perfectly.

House and Cuddy looked at each other, pride mixed with wonder mixed with recognition of future difficulties ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! The next story after this one (Verdict) is coming along slowly, too. That one is more Patrick Chandler. And while I do believe that some people, like Chandler, try to use the psychiatric defense as a cop out, I also believe that there are people who are truly not in control of their actions. As we shall see. . .

Short but very significant update in terms of ground laying for what is ahead.

(H/C)

Sam Higgins had never told anyone about the voices.

He couldn't. The voices themselves emphasized that, punctuated with stabs of pain as the hot barbed-wire fence that he could sometimes almost _feel_ around his head tightened. If he told anybody, the people would take him away, lock him up in a small room, and he'd never see anyone again, only have food poked in through a flap in the door. He would never have anybody except the voices and the pain for company, and no one would notice as they slowly and deliberately killed him.

But as long as he kept quiet and did what they said, the fence was there but not tightening up, and most days, he could go about his life as before. No one seemed to notice. That amazed him, as the voices were so clear to him that it seemed everyone else in the room must also hear. But no one knew. No one saw the difference.

He could vaguely sometimes remember a time when the voices hadn't been there. It seemed like a dream now. Before the fall, before he got hurt, he had lived in peace. Of course, he hadn't had things a lot of others did, no prestigious job, no nice house or car, no family. But he hadn't really wanted them, either. He knew that he wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box. He knew that being a janitor was about his speed, and he had been happy with it. Except for the family bit. He had longed for that sometimes, someone to live with and talk to, even before the voices arrived to ironically fulfill that wish. The few times he had let himself admit it, he knew that his routine, mundane life had been a lonely one.

Of course, he _did_ have relatives, but most of them wished nothing to do with him. _Slow_, they had called him. _Unambitious_. To them, being unambitious was a mortal sin, and they pretended he didn't exist as they climbed their own social and occupational ladders. That had hurt, that they shoved him into the corner like an unmentionable secret, just because he wasn't as smart as they were. A small part of him had always dreamed of having them one day accept him, respect him for what he was, look at him like he meant something. Only a nephew, now about to graduate from Princeton, had called him sometimes to talk once he moved away from home to college, almost in curious defiance of his family's wishes, as if wanting to explore the color of the fleece on the black sheep. The more it seemed just like regular fleece, only of a different color, the more curious the nephew was.

The nephew alone had sent him a get well card a year ago after the fall. A bulb had burned out in a stairwell, and Sam had been changing it on a ladder when the ladder failed, sending him falling not only to the landing but down a long flight of stairs, striking his head hard on a banister support at the bottom. He had fractured his skull, had spent several days in the hospital, and that was when the voices started. But he had been afraid to defy them and tell anybody, and Worker's Compensation had chiefly been interested in getting him back on the job as soon as possible. Nobody had asked him too many questions. Sam himself wanted to return to work as soon as possible. It was his life, a slow, boring rhythm, maybe, but it was what he knew. He did it well, and he was proud of that. So he kept the voices to himself, he returned to work, and life went on.

There were terrifying moments since when he seemed to lose time occasionally, would be in one place and then suddenly somewhere else a few hours later with no memory of what came between. But nobody else seemed to have noticed anything odd, so he must have still been doing his job all right. The voices forbade him to inquire too closely, reminding him that his life would distill to nothing more than a padded cell if anybody ever found out, and the barbed wire would heat up and tighten any time he thought too much about the time gaps.

So he plodded along with his janitorial life as usual, in spite of the voices. Until _she_ came to work. From the moment he saw her, he realized that this was the woman he had been waiting for. They were meant to be together. He tried being especially nice to her, and she even seemed to like him and talked to him now and then. But the day he had actually asked her out, she had laughed in his face. "With a _janitor_? Sam, I'm already dating somebody. Someone who has a future."

Sam had turned away, mortified, all his courage he'd marshaled to ask running out like bath water down a drain. But that night, his nephew had called to talk. Sam didn't remember all of that conversation, losing time again, but the voices had for the first time been almost reassuring the next day. They had assured him that she would change her mind. He would prove to her that he was just as significant as anybody else. He did indeed have a future, and she would be forced to agree. They were comforting. At first, that was, until he started asking questions.

All he had to do was schedule a few days off and go to Princeton to see his nephew graduate. Yes, the family would be there, but they, too, would realize how wrong they had been in dismissing him. And he needed to take a gun. One of the few accomplishments of Sam's past was that he was a crack shot. He had always enjoyed hunting, and he had even bought a pistol a few years ago to keep in his nightstand when there had been several robberies in his neighborhood and he was scared. Sam objected briefly when the voices told him this, afraid he might have to hurt his nephew, the one family member who had been nice to him. But the hot barbed wire had cinched down. He hadn't been able to sleep at all that night, just moaning in pain as the headaches and the voices pounded at him. He wouldn't hurt his nephew, they assured him, but he _would_ show his family and show that woman how wrong they had been. He'd _make_ them notice him. Hadn't part of him always dreamed of that? He would finally get a woman's love and his family's respect, the two things he'd always longed for.

Worn down by the pain and the voices, he had finally agreed just to get some sleep, just to make it shut up for a few seconds before he wound up using the gun on himself simply to achieve silence. So he put in his vacation request, and he got the oil changed in his car this weekend, and he set off Sunday on the long 2-day drive to Princeton, still wondering exactly what was going to happen, afraid to wonder too hard and make the barbed wire heat up again. In his suitcase was the gun.


	4. Chapter 4

Fittingly, an insomnia chapter. :) Next one is more ground laying, and the one after that is lift-off. When things start happening in this story, they all happen quickly. Thanks for the reviews!

(H/C)

House woke up at 2:00 a.m. Monday morning and couldn't get back to sleep.

This was no longer his normal pattern. He had realized through therapy by now that his lifelong insomnia had actually been an effort to regain some control of his environment and protect himself, since sleeping at home in childhood had never represented safety, and letting his guard down had several times led to unpleasant surprises. But these days, with treatment, his sleep patterns were more regulated than they ever had been. He didn't have to be knocked clear out every night unless some major crisis like the Chandler fiasco was going on, but he was still on the sleeping pill at a reduced dose, just enough to give him a gentle boost off at night. Jensen was slowly working down the dose on the pills, but he was going very carefully and gradually on that, realizing that they had nearly 50 years of conditioning on the other side of the scale.

But it was unusual for House to wake up at night now unless he occasionally had to go to the bathroom. That wasn't the case tonight. He _knew_ what the case was tonight, and it annoyed him. With a sigh, he lay there with his eyes open, turning automatically to face Cuddy as his mind surveyed the past.

This was Memorial Day.

John had made a habit of "using" holidays for subtext with his son, and Memorial Day and the Fourth of July were two with which he emphasized specific military associations. John's overall calendar of the year had built House's lifelong aversion to holidays or celebrations. They had never been positive. Never. Memorial Day and the Fourth had been mild by House's childhood standards, simply containing the requirement that he stand at attention, salute his father, and hold it as long as he could. John would bark at him like a drill sergeant as his arm started to quiver, and once Greg's aching hand dropped, there would be a few good blows plus the omnipresent assessment that his son was a weakling. But compared to a lot of others, Memorial Day hadn't been that bad, nothing close to Christmas. John had been in a _good_ mood normally on those days, days when he could put on his dress uniform and parade around to public appreciation and recognition. There had usually been ceremonies. John liked things like that. Stomping on his son had formed only a minor line on his day's agenda.

But it still left the day with some specific associations to House. Watching everybody else decorate graves and remember loved ones, something else foreign to his experience, hadn't improved it much over the years.

Jensen had been working on this just last Friday, had specifically asked him what happened then, knowing John's predilection for holidays by now. House had eventually admitted that he was afraid he would have a nightmare that night and disturb Cuddy, and Jensen had looked thoughtful. "Let's try something," the psychiatrist had suggested. "This is a good opportunity to try it, in fact. Bad memories but certainly not the worst with this day, and you have no crises adding stress to your life at the moment. Instead of taking the dose on the sleeping pill back up for that night, I want you to leave it where it is, and before going to bed that night, just resolve that you will not have a nightmare. _Don't_ recite it over and over and get into an obsession fit on it. Just state it, like a simple fact, a vote that's already been counted. You are not going to have a nightmare that night. Decided and done with."

House had been dubious but had agreed to try it. With the apparent result that instead of waking up with a nightmare, he was waking up without one. He wondered wryly as he stared at the ceiling if this counted as progress. Maybe he should have been more specific and instructed himself that he was going to sleep through the night. He was starting to get used to truly sleeping these days, and his body appreciated it. Reverting to the old pattern, specifically when he _knew_ by now that it was psychosomatic, irritated him.

With another sigh, he slowly, carefully sat up on his side of the bed, trying not to disturb Cuddy. He massaged his leg into compliance and then hauled himself to his feet and slowly limped out of the bedroom, making sure to close the door behind him. He checked on the girls - sleeping peacefully - then slid into the arms of his familiar midnight mistress from all of those previous years, the baby grand piano. He kept the soft pedal on and the musical selection less vivacious, but the control of it, the music, the way that the instrument always seemed as eager as he was to produce its voice steadied him. This had been the one good part of all those disrupted nights.

His thoughts drifted on the current of the music. Memorial Day. Mark Jensen had said he was working today, and House hung a mental note to investigate whether the excessive workaholic bug was one more thing the twins shared. Maybe Mark was simply running himself down through too many hours. No, probably not. Jensen would have recognized that from personal experience. Mark sold security systems, House knew. More likely that some client wanted to take advantage of the empty office to upgrade his security.

The girls. What on earth was he going to do about the music? He was so used to thinking of Rachel as his daughter that he tended to forget that she did not in fact share his DNA, which Abby did. It truly hadn't occurred to him that Abby had a better chance at inheriting his talent. But he also realized that he had fallen into a trap of always seeing Rachel achieving developmental stages first. Abby's rough start had delayed her progress in a lot of ways, but he reminded himself that it wasn't a given that Rachel would be the first one ready for piano lessons or for any other step in life. It hadn't even occurred to him to start exploring the piano with Abby yet. How often had his younger daughter sat there watching, sensing a language that she wanted to learn, yet not being given the opportunity?

He had to pay more attention. Had to try to do better balancing the two of them. But Rachel truly wanted to play the piano, had always loved listening to his music. At this point, working with Abby even in addition to continuing Rachel's own lessons would frustrate her. She had a much shorter fuse naturally than Abby anyway, although when Abby did get mad over something, she had a surprising amount of TNT in her still slightly undersized body.

"Greg?"

He hadn't heard Cuddy come into the darkened living room, but she was suddenly right by his elbow. He jumped sharply, and she put a hand on his arm. "I didn't mean to startle you. Are you okay?'

"Fine. I just couldn't sleep. Didn't mean to disturb you."

"You're not disturbing me. My own private concert, and I didn't even have to buy a ticket." She moved over to the couch and settled down, studying him. Studying him _too_ intently.

He switched into Cuddy's Serenade, playing it for her, trying to distract her own differential, which worked. She was caught up as always in the piece and what it represented to them. He finished and modulated into another quiet selection. "I'm fine, Lisa. Go back to bed."

She hesitated, gauging. Push or give him space? "I'm _fine_," he repeated, with an edge underneath that told her that he wasn't entirely, but it also answered pretty clearly whether he wanted space or company just now.

She stood up and came over to the piano to give him a kiss. "Okay. Wake me up if you want to talk." He relaxed slightly, and she knew that for the moment, she had chosen correctly, but she would keep an ear out and an eye on the clock and be ready to re-evaluate that decision if she thought it was necessary.

"I will. Thanks." She gave his arm a light squeeze, a world of love in her fingers, and then returned to the bedroom.

House continued playing, losing track of the time, losing himself in the music.

Memorial Day. When most of the country would remember loved ones who were dead, would go to their graves to remember and celebrate. The only dead family he had he was glad was safely six feet under.

No, that wasn't quite right. There was Oma, the one connection of his childhood. He didn't even know where her grave was.

He knew where Thirteen's grave was.

The current of the music rippled on the thought. Okay, she wasn't really family. But she had worked alongside him for years, and he did still miss her presence in the differentials the last several months since her death. He remembered bolting blindly away from her grave last fall. He hadn't even been able to be there correctly, like everybody else in her life was doing that day, even Foreman. But House had hidden behind a tree, and then he had run.

Suddenly, he felt that she deserved more than that. That she deserved some recognition from him on this, the day when people remembered those they had lost, or at least gave lip service to it before moving on to their barbecues and ball games in the land of the living. The people. He didn't know if he could face Thirteen. He _knew_ he couldn't face the people, and today, soon as daylight came, they would descend like ants on the cemetery. There would be no chance at privacy then.

He resolved the chord, then stood up. He walked slowly back to the bedroom, then hesitated at the closed door and turned around. He had thought of telling her where he was going, but she was probably asleep again already. He'd bothered her enough tonight. Gathering his shoes and keys, he slipped into the garage and tried to keep the motorcycle quiet, not revving, as he started it and slipped out onto the darkened, deserted roads.

The cemetery was fenced, but there was no gate, and part of his mind dissected the absurdity of that as he rode through the pillars. What on earth use was a fence with no gate? He hadn't been back here since that day last fall when he'd been unable to stay, but the location was burned into his brain. He stopped the motorcycle on the nearest road, about 15 feet from her grave, and stared at the tombstone, lit by moonlight. His pulse and respirations were kicking up, his legs feeling slightly shaky even though he was still on the bike. He wasn't sure he physically _could_ walk up to that grave.

But he was here. Closer than he had ever been in his life. And she was here, and contrary to John's predictions, nobody, least of all her, was laughing at him.

"Yeah," he said finally, the first word he'd uttered. He gave a nod to the tombstone, then kicked the motorcycle back into life, winding through the cemetery to one other remembered location. Christopher Bellinger. Again, he never dismounted, never left the road, but he stayed there for a moment at a small distance, looking at the stone. No doubt Ann would be here in daylight today. Christopher would have flowers. Hell, even Thirteen would probably have flowers. Others would be here and would do it right for them.

But he had at least come, and part of him recognized that as a victory. He had done something _normal_ on Memorial Day. _Yeah, everybody is out in the cemetery on a motorcycle in the middle of the night,_ his mind scoffed. But it had been something completely un-John.

He rode back out through the pillars, heading home, and as he turned into the driveway, he saw the lights in the living room. _Shit_. Like a guilty kid sneaking in after curfew, he slunk through the connecting door from the garage and walked into the living room, head down, to face her.

Cuddy was sitting there holding a book and a cup of tea, trying to look normal, like she had just gotten up randomly herself, but the book was unread, and the cup of tea was cold. She studied him. He was trembling very slightly. "Sit down, Greg," she said softly.

He sat down obediently, and she picked up his hand. "It's okay. I'm not mad." He looked up dubiously at that, meeting her eyes for the first time. She didn't in fact look mad. Just worried, not that that was much of an improvement.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just needed to . . ."

He didn't get any further before she all but pounced on him, their lips crashing together, and when they parted a few minutes later, he wasn't quivering anymore. Jensen's homework on reconditioning that phrase had paid excellent dividends over the last several months. "I'm _not_ mad," she emphasized again. "But _you_ need to talk to somebody. I'm not asking this time if you want to. You _need_ to. And I'm here, Greg. Don't shut me out."

He looked down again. "I . . . you couldn't have gone with me anyway . . . the girls."

"Where did you go, Greg?"

Amazingly, she still didn't sound mad. Just firm. She wasn't going to let him dismiss her this time, and while it was annoying, the larger part of him was glad of it. "It's Memorial Day," he started.

She sat there listening, the pressure of her hand reassuring in his, as he told her about the past and about the present trip to the cemetery. When he had finished, she leaned in for another kiss. "I'm proud of you," she said.

"I couldn't get clear up to the graves," he pointed out, downplaying the victory that he himself was pathetically proud of.

"Who cares? You went there for them. And you woke up, too. Don't you see that _that's _a victory itself? You woke up, Greg. You didn't have a nightmare. Your mind brought you back into the present instead of the past."

He hadn't quite looked at it that way, just as a failure, reverting to old habits. Cuddy gave him a final squeeze and stood up. "Let's go back to bed," she suggested, and he willingly let her give him a hand up from the couch. Together, they checked on the girls, then went back into their own room.

This time, he slept deeply, and the dreams were pleasant ones of his family.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry for the delay. RL is truly wacky at times at the moment, so updating schedule on this one is unpredictable. Might be a day or two between chapters, might be a week or two. All the reviews are appreciated, though, and I'm glad folks are still enjoying the Pranks world. Short update in this one, next chapter longer. Next chapter we crash full speed into Tuesday, when a whole lot of things happen very quickly.

(H/C)

Allen Brown looked at the man in front of him and tried to keep his voice level and even. _Be nice to the customers, even the unreasonable ones_, his boss's voice repeated in his head, to be countered by his own personal mantra, _one more year, and I am so out of this job and this nowhere town. _"I'm sorry, sir," he repeated, "but today is a holiday. The gas station is open, but the garage isn't. The mechanic won't be in until tomorrow morning. He can look at your car at 8:00, soon as he gets in."

Sam gritted his teeth against the pain in his head. The voices were relentless, and he was fighting to keep from physically grabbing his temples. It was hardly his fault his old car had conked out with several hours still to drive. He'd even gotten the oil changed for the trip. It wasn't his fault, but the voices were focused only on Princeton. "Isn't there any other garage?"

"In this town? You're lucky there's this one. You're lucky the gas station is even open."

Sam was starting to sweat. "I _really_ have to get to Princeton for my nephew's graduation tomorrow. Could you call him in this afternoon? I'll give you an extra $20."

A minor twinge of sympathy trickled through Allen's standard boredom. "He's out of town himself, off with family today. Look, there's a motel just down the street - be glad we've got one of those in this hole in the wall. Maybe the problem with your car is a minor one. We'll get to it as soon as we can."

Sam's hands were almost shaking. "I _have_ to get there tomorrow."

"Hey, maybe I could find somebody who'd give you a ride another 70 miles to the city for some money." Including, of course, the aforementioned $20 tip to Allen himself, which he wouldn't be reporting either to his boss or the IRS. "There you might be able to catch a plane - if you can get a flight on no notice on a holiday. Or maybe rent a car. That'll probably cost you, though."

Sam shook his head. "I can't . . . I haven't got much money. And I've got to get the car fixed anyway. I _need_ the car to get to work. Can't just leave it." He was trying to convince the voices.

"Then tomorrow morning is the best we can do. I'm really sorry. At least our motel is cheap." Like everything else here. "And no fast food, but Hannah's grill is open today."

Sam looked at him helplessly, an expression in the eyes that almost frightened Allen for a moment. He was truly beginning to wonder if this man's elevator went to the top floor. Abruptly, Sam turned away and left the gas station, stopping to retrieve his suitcase from his car parked outside where a local good-old-boy had towed it in from a mile away.

Allen watched him head for the motel, then looked at his watch, calculating how much longer he had until he could get off work. _Next year,_ he reminded himself. One more year, and he was so out of this loser town, and he wouldn't be stuck working holidays anymore. He turned up the volume on the radio, letting his mind drift to the future.

(H/C)

Sam sat down on the bed in the small motel room. His hands were literally shaking now. "Shut _up_," he begged aloud. "I haven't got that much extra money; I'm a _janitor_, for crying out loud. You guys should know that. Don't know what the car will cost. Can't just leave it and go on. Maybe it's a little thing, and I'll still get there tomorrow in time for the graduation." The voices were more urgent now, boring into his mind like drills. Sam opened the suitcase and removed the pistol, feeling its weight. It was cold in his hands, but the coldness was almost comforting, a stark contrast from the red-hot barbed wire surrounding his head.

One bullet would be enough. The voices would have to shut up then. Wouldn't they? The whole idea horrified Sam, but he couldn't imagine going through a whole night like this. He'd truly be insane by tomorrow morning.

Amazingly, the voices backed off, the volume decreasing, the barbed wire loosening a bit. If tomorrow morning first thing was the best he could do with the car, okay. But he must make all efforts to get to Princeton as soon as he could then; nobody actually followed the speed limits, after all. But it was going to be okay. People would notice him. He would get _their_ attention, the woman's and his family's, and they would see how wrong they had been to dismiss him as insignificant.

Sam let out a deep breath and replaced the gun in the suitcase. He closed his eyes and leaned back on the bed. Worn out with his own internal struggle and the events of the last few hours, grasping the blessed moment of lower volume while he could, he fell asleep, still on top of the covers.

(H/C)

Wilson finished loading the dishwasher and came back into the living room. Sandra was on the couch and didn't seem to have moved in the last 15 minutes, but her eyes were closed now. Wilson paused, studying her with a frown. She looked a little pale and drawn. "You okay?" he asked with concern.

She opened her eyes. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day."

That it had, although he had tried to make her take breaks and go easily. They had visited Danny in his assisted living home this morning, and while Wilson had told Sandra she didn't have to go, he was glad she had been there. Danny was functional at a low level now with some supervision and on strict meds, but Wilson had resigned himself long since to the fact that the brother he remembered from the good moments of childhood would never fully return. Truly talking with Sandra about Danny in the last few months was another of those uncomfortable novelties that was also a relief. He'd never truly shared it with anybody but Jensen, not all the worries, not all the regrets. Not even all of it with House and certainly not with any former woman in his life. But she always listened in quiet compassion. He'd never fully realized before what a good listener she was. Her silent hand on his during the drive back had been an almost unbearable comfort.

Then after lunch, they had gone to Philadelphia, where both of her parents, killed together in a car crash, and her sister, died in childhood of cancer, were buried. She had wanted to visit their graves, and it had been Wilson's turn to be the supportive one. She still had regrets of her own there, not for past misunderstandings but for all the years unfairly snatched away, the years she should have had left with them.

But it had been a long day, especially for someone who was now very pregnant. Wilson walked over to the couch and picked up a foot, unable to resist the brief medical moment of assessing the swelling at the ankle before he started massaging it. She closed her eyes again and gave a soft murmur of relief. "That feels wonderful."

"You did too much today," he said tentatively, trying not to lecture, trying not to judge, trying to just show concern without all the other baggage along for the ride.

She sighed. "I think you're right," she admitted. "Both parts needed doing, though."

Wilson switched to the other foot. "We could have done Danny another day."

"And I could have suggested that myself. Don't get into a guilt trip, James." She stiffened up abruptly, her back arching slightly off the couch, one hand going to her abdomen.

Wilson stopped his massage instantly, moving farther up to place his hands alongside hers. "What is it?" He couldn't keep the sharp bite of urgency out of his tone that time.

"Braxton-Hicks, I think. Just for a moment, but it's gone again. It's okay, James."

He massaged her abdomen gently for a minute, unable to resist a quick glance up, almost expecting the hovering sword to be an actual one, so visible that she could see it herself. Her hands closed over his. "It's _okay_, James. I think." Honesty forced her to add that postscript. He could sense her own concern, but he was fighting a near panic attack himself. Breathe, damn it. Settle down. Be there for her.

"Any more?" he asked after a few more minutes. She shook her head. "As a doctor, I prescribe going to bed early," he stated, trying to sound medical instead of borderline frantic.

"Good idea," she admitted, and he moved to let her shift her legs to the floor and sit up. He watched her stand.

"Sandra?" he started tentatively.

She looked back. "What?"

"Why don't you go ahead and just start leave?" She only had another week scheduled on the job anyway before maternity leave, and she had been on light duty for a few months, more chart work, trying to cut down time on her feet.

She tightened up a bit in disagreement. "I'm just tired, James. We've got 5 weeks left still before the baby."

"Just think about it in the morning, okay? What's one more week, after all? Maybe you could just take tomorrow off to rest up after today."

She hesitated. "I'll see what I feel like tomorrow morning. I'm pretty sure I'm just tired from doing too much today."

"Which is why resting at least for tomorrow would be a great idea," he urged. "Maybe I could take . . . no, damn it, I can't take tomorrow off. Not unless I have to. I've got a few appointments I shouldn't postpone."

"_You_ definitely don't need to be hovering around all day just winding yourself up in a worry fit. If it makes you feel better, I'll take tomorrow, okay? But not the rest of the week. I'm just tired."

He accepted the compromise, though he still didn't quite like it. "Thank you."

She softened her stance a little and came over to kiss him. "Good night, James."

"Night, Sandra."

He watched her enter the bedroom, and then the door shut. Wilson fought the urge to go after her and remind her to wake him up in the night if she started feeling worse, but she knew that. She was a nurse, after all. Don't hover, don't smother, don't dump your stress on her. She has plenty of her own, God knows. Thanks to you being an idiot. Getting out his medication bottle, he took an Ativan, and then, when he started to feel a little steadier, he went through the main bathroom, then to his own separate bedroom. But sleep was a long time coming.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Buckle up, here we go! This chapter and next one get most major balls in the air, and from there, it's just watching them spin and hoping one doesn't drop. Again, sorry for any medical errors; research is all I can do. My favorite part of this story is the psychology, though, especially Cuddy.

Somebody pointed out recently that you all still don't know exactly what Jensen looks like, other than brown eyes. Sorry about that. (Insert image of House and Cuddy kissing.) I'll rectify the error.

Enjoy chapter 6!

(H/C)

House and Cuddy were deep in conversation Tuesday morning as they walked across the parking lot to the main door of PPTH. "I was thinking of that piano mat Jensen gave me," he said. "I've been keeping it up in the office, but I might bring it home and give it to Abby. Maybe that would go over better than her using Rachel's or mine." He sighed. "Like _anything_ is going to go over better here."

"I know," Cuddy commiserated. "I was actually wondering for a minute about trying to explain beginner genetics to Rachel, why Abby was more likely to be a natural at music. But I doubt telling Rachel she isn't our biological daughter would improve her feelings any."

House shook his head sharply. "Nope. I really _have_ to start doing something with Abby, though. To want to play but never have us notice . . . we can't keep her in the background just because Rachel is jealous about it."

"I was thinking about that, Greg. Abby watching, I mean. I missed the clues too; she's always watching something. So much more mentally intense than physically like Rachel. But I think it wouldn't be a good idea for the girls to watch each other's lessons anymore. It would just make Rachel feel worse to hear Abby, and Abby couldn't help sitting there taking part of Rachel's lesson. I could take the other one back to the nursery. Make it fun, read a special book or something. Some nice one-on-one special time with me. But I don't think general admission piano lessons are the best approach here."

"Good idea," House agreed. He limped briskly through the doors and headed across the lobby toward the elevator. Cuddy, watching him, had to smile slightly. He was thinking of Mark Jensen, a new mystery, and his stride was more motivated than usual this morning as he headed for his office.

"Enjoy differentializing."

He stabbed the button and turned to face her. "I will. Enjoy sitting around twiddling your thumbs while being on standby for the President not to show up."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "I wasn't going to be twiddling my thumbs. Unlike _some_ of my employees, I'm used to working on more than one thing at a time."

House gave a smirk. "Okay, I'll rephrase that. Enjoy talking to arrogant, know-nothing big shots and humoring them and dealing with boring paperwork while you wait for the President not to show up."

"That's not quite an accurate job description," she protested mildly, even though she knew he was just trying to annoy her. It gave him a game to keep his mind occupied while waiting for the elevator.

"And now I've hurt your feelings," he stated mournfully. "I'm sorry, Lisa."

She stiffened up, looking around the crowded lobby full of employees and patients and relatives, then looked back at House. His blue eyes were gleaming with mischief. Part of her rejoiced at the fact that he could finally use that line lightheartedly, but the larger part was painfully aware of the surroundings, of her image as Lisa Cuddy-House, Dean of Medicine, always businesslike and in control. "In your dreams," she replied sweetly. "Have a good day, Greg." She turned on her heel and headed for her office, and she heard his soft chuckle behind her. Firmly refocusing her own thoughts, which were anywhere other than on boring paperwork and pompous donors, she entered the office and sat down at her desk, but her lips still had a very unbusinesslike smile on them for a few minutes.

(H/C)

House entered the conference room almost cheerfully. "Good morning, ducklings!" he said.

Kutner, Foreman, and Taub looked up, gauging his mood for the day. Thirteen's vacant position still hadn't been filled, something that Cuddy had pushed House gently on a few times, but given the circumstances of the opening, she had been willing to cut him a lot of slack there. Which House, of course, was taking full advantage of. Foreman and Taub just made the morning House reading a practical assessment, absorbing the findings and noting them mentally, but Kutner was curious. "We haven't got a case," he said in tentative reminder, trying to do a subtle differential on his boss's good mood.

"Actually, I have. I've got an appointment with a patient at 11:00."

The coffee in Taub's cup quivered just slightly as he put it down. Kutner was openly curious. "You've got an appointment?"

"You know, patient enters room, sees doctor, gets diagnosed. One of those appointments. Several thousand are happening all across America this morning; I'm surprised you aren't familiar with the concept."

"You don't make appointments," Foreman stated, a simple fact.

"I thought I'd turn over a new leaf. Try the standard way for at least one morning before I shoot it down again. Variety is the spice of life, you know."

"What are this mystery patient's symptoms?" Taub asked, looking toward the blank whiteboard.

House shrugged. "Don't know."

"What does he say they are?" Kutner asked.

"He says there aren't any." House started for his own office. "But this is _my_ appointment, not yours. Not up front, anyway. He's less likely to confess in front of a committee, so before 11:00, everybody kindly get lost. Do paperwork, go help out in ER. Something."

"Can I go hear the President?" Kutner asked hopefully.

House turned around to look at him. "Seriously? You want to go hear a politician speak?"

"Not just any politician, House. He's the President."

"And the first and greatest requirement for that job is to be a politician extraordinaire. But if you want to waste your time, sure. Better get there plenty early if you want to get in. Just take the day off."

Kutner bounced up with typical enthusiasm and headed for the conference room door, and Taub stood to follow. House pointed, freezing him in place with his finger. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To hear the President?" Taub offered lamely.

"Nice try. _Kutner_ I'd believe on that. You just want a day off. Too bad, limit one per day, and he asked first. You and Foreman can do hospital stuff." House turned around and headed into his office, letting the door close behind him. He sat down at his desk and opened his backpack.

Taub craned his neck, trying to see. "Is he setting up a _chess_ _set_?"

Foreman shrugged. "Who knows." He stood up. "I'll see if ER is shorthanded. House doesn't have clinic hours anymore for us to do, but you might check there anyway. Or just paperwork in the lounge or something." He left the conference room, and Taub gave another sideways glance at House's office, trying to be surreptitious.

It was definitely a chess set.

(H/C)

Mark Jensen was prompt to nearly the minute, which didn't surprise House much. Jensen himself ran a very tight schedule, at least when House wasn't disrupting it. Mark tapped lightly at the door a few minutes before 11:00 and then entered, stopping in surprise just inside the office, staring at the desk.

House looked up from the chess set, twirling the black queen between nimble fingers. "Come on in." He watched Mark cross the office, looking for any diagnostic clues but also struck again by the stunning physical resemblance. It was even more striking seeing the brothers apart. When they had been together at Jensen's wedding, House could differentiate more easily with the live comparison available. Right now, only Mark's attitude, definitely that of someone reluctantly approaching a doctor for an unwanted first appointment, stood out. He had Jensen's same dark eyes, not quite Wilson's milk chocolate but not far off. As with Jensen, the brown eyes seemed almost incongruous against the blond hair at first, as if they had been switched in to replace blue ones when the watcher wasn't looking. Medium tall and medium build. Like Jensen, he looked like he kept up a regular exercise program. The most marked physical difference, the burn scar on Jensen's right forearm, wouldn't have been visible anyway, as Mark had on a long-sleeved, though light-weight, button-up shirt. Jensen himself rarely left his arm uncovered, at least with patients. He wasn't self conscious at all about the scar, but it looked bad enough that it could be distracting to people seeking any way to evade their own issues.

House nodded at the chair in front of the desk. "Have a seat. Black or white?"

Mark looked dubiously at the chess set on the desk between them. "I was expecting something more along the lines of initial paperwork to start out with."

"Paperwork is boring," House stated. "A lot of my patients, I don't even know their names. Black or white?"

Mark leaned forward slightly, his eyes lighting up as he let himself focus on the chess set, much like House's did on thoughts of the piano. "Black." House turned the board appropriately, and they began.

"So, how long has your brother been worried about you?" House asked, timing the question just as Mark was considering a move.

Mark moved the piece before replying. "A couple of weeks."

House countered with a pawn. "He couldn't exactly define it for me. So you've felt just as usual those couple of weeks?"

"Yes. I'm perfectly fine." Mark made his move.

House gave himself a second to consider the board, although he was deliberately trying not to give Mark much strategy time himself. Mark, the former state chess champion, should be able to beat him easily, but House had other motives than just the game. House conducting a history while being as distracting as possible would hopefully be a burden at least to some extent to the other man, and under distraction and stress, symptoms that were being denied might be more liable to peek out from under the covers. House kept all his senses peeled as the game continued. "How old are you?"

"Just turned 40."

"Have you been sleeping okay?"

Slight hesitation there, which Mark covered by thinking about the next move. "Fine."

"Although you have to stop and think about it. So fine isn't totally fine, is it?"

"No, I'm trying to play chess." The faintest ripple of annoyance there. Jensen had described Mark as steadier and more level-headed than he was, but a constant shower of conversation during a favorite pastime would be annoying on its own. With the roles reversed, House would have quickly gotten a bite in his tone if somebody else had been trying this while he was playing the piano.

"What about your appetite?"

"It's fine."

"Has your wife noticed anything?"

Very slight hesitation again. "Not that she's said, but I haven't told her that Michael's after me. She doesn't question the two of us talking; we do it all the time."

"You do security systems, right?"

"Yes." Again, he was trying to keep answers short, wanting to think about the game. Mark moved his rook.

"Do you install them yourself on site?"

"Yes, I do."

"Been to any interesting sites lately? Decomposing bodies in the basement? Scientific labs with poorly closed jars leaking goo? Exotic wild animals in the back yard?"

Mark grinned at that. "Trust me, the job isn't that exciting. Checkmate."

House gave a token salute with his captured king, and they set the board up again. "What about your energy level?"

"It's just like always." Mark hesitated again slightly.

"Only it isn't, is it?"

"Well, it's been hot lately. You know that. Everybody's feeling a little less umph the last few weeks."

"And pretty much everybody also has air conditioning," House pointed out.

"I'm in and around buildings in the field all the time. Inside and outside. I'm not sitting at a desk for 8 hours." Mark moved his knight and gave an almost predatory smile.

House saw the trap but didn't see much way to avoid it. Both of his potential exits had already been blocked. "How long have you been in security systems?"

"About 15 years."

"And has this heat wave hit harder than previous ones?"

"No," Mark said. He captured House's queen with satisfaction.

"So your brother gets worried about you every year like this?"

Mark sighed. "No, he doesn't. I have been a little tired lately, but it's just the heat. Nothing more."

"Based on the grand philosophy of, 'I don't want there to be.' Nice one. Are you on any medications?"

"Norvasc for mild high blood pressure. It's controlled. That's it."

"Childhood illnesses?"

"The usual. I had my appendix out as a teenager. I've been very healthy all my life, really."

"When did you have the hypertension diagnosed?" House was watching closely. Mark was much superior as a chess player, but he also was having slight difficulty running the two tracks. It shouldn't be this hard for someone of his high intelligence and skill.

"About two years ago."

"What about family history? Parents? Any siblings besides your brother?"

"Just the two of us. Both parents are dead. Dad died in a car accident seven years ago. Mom died of liver cancer three years ago. Mom had high blood pressure most of her adult life." Mark slid his queen neatly into line. "Checkmate."

House nodded and stood up. "Let's go find an exam room."

(H/C)

House, with Mark trailing him, entered the clinic, and Brenda came to a startled stop in the middle of her daily whirl. House was almost never seen down here since his liberation. He gave her a quick nod and walked past to Exam Room Two where another doctor and patient were just emerging. "I'm borrowing Room Two, Brenda."

"House!" she protested.

He looked back at her guilelessly. "What's wrong? I'll be sure to return it."

"I'm _busy_."

"What a coincidence. So am I." House gave Mark a slight boost in the back, pushing him on in, and then entered himself, closing the door.

Mark shook his head. "Michael said you were a character."

"Why be boring?" House asked. "Okay, up on the table." He watched Mark climb up, assessing the effort. House had also tried to make the walk from the elevator as brisk as possible. Of course, in a contest between a cripple and somebody who could truly exercise, the cripple wasn't likely to be the one to push the other's limits. Still, Mark did seem a bit out of breath, and the climb onto the table wasn't quite effortless. "Have your joints been aching lately? Is exercise harder than usual?"

"I twisted an ankle slightly a few weeks ago running. That's why I'm still a little achy, the rest of my body trying to compensate for it."

"Which ankle?" House asked.

"Left."

House moved down to check it, removing the shoe and sock. "There's no swelling." He pushed on a toe. "The perfusion might be just slightly diminished, though. Let's check the other one." The other foot yielded the same. House frowned in thought. Unlikely to be DVT with it bilateral. He tested pulses. Pulses were there but not bounding, and the perfusion did seem slightly off. A less-careful doctor might not have noticed. He checked both hands, where it was even more slight than in the feet. He might have missed the hands himself without being on alert from the findings down below.

House picked up a stethoscope from the counter. "Let me listen to your heart. Open your shirt." Mark unbuttoned his shirt, and House had just gotten the stethoscope set when the door to the exam room crashed open.

"House!" Wilson was so agitated he was nearly vibrating. "I _need_ you. Thank God I saw you heading this way right before . . ."

"That's odd. Your heart sounds like Wilson." House removed the earpieces and turned around to face his friend. Wilson had trailed off and was staring at Mark.

"At least you're here! I mean, I hope there won't be a reason to, I mean. . . are you a patient?"

"I think you're mixing me up with my brother," Mark stated.

Wilson's eyebrows rose. "This is Mark," House confirmed. "Michael is, to the best of my knowledge, back in New York. If he were here, though, he'd probably tell you to take an Ativan."

Wilson fumbled in his pocket. "I think it's in my desk."

"Here. I'm feeling generous today." House fished his own out of a pocket and tossed the bottle over. Wilson had trouble with the lid with his shaking hands. "What's the problem?"

"Sandra just called." Wilson achieved a pill and took it, passing the bottle back. "She's having intermittent contractions. Isn't feeling right. A neighbor is driving her to the ER." Wilson shook his head. "I should have driven her."

"Wilson, you'd have to drive there first. Cuts time to the ER in half for her to get a ride on that end." True, but also true that Sandra would realize that Wilson wouldn't be fit to drive with this news.

"House, what if she's really in labor? It's too early. It's . . ."

"35 weeks isn't too bad. But she isn't necessarily going to go on and deliver right now. There are these neat things called drugs they can use. We have a good OB department. They'll check her out and go from there."

"But if . . . if . . . House, promise me you'll take this case."

"I'm not an OB, Wilson."

"I mean the baby. Premature labor is a sign of neonatal HSV-2."

"Sign of a whole lot else, too. There are lots of possible reasons."

"Including HSV-2. God, I can't believe this."

"Well, yes, that's one of the possible reasons. But take a deep breath. You won't do much for her when she gets here if you're about to pass out yourself."

Wilson took about five breaths obediently, all far too fast. "House, promise me. You have to promise me. If the baby is delivered and has problems, take his case."

"There's a whole staff in the NICU. Good one, too. They saved Abby."

"I trust you more. _Promise me_, House. Say you'll take this case."

Ativan and deep breathing didn't seem to be doing much so far. "Okay," House agreed, more for the sake of trying to get his friend to calm down. "I promise, if the baby is born and has problems, I will take his case."

Wilson finally took a deeper breath. "Thank you. I . . ."

"Go down to the ER, Wilson. _Be there_ for her. She's going to be scared herself. But there's still a lot the doctors might be able to do."

"Be there. Right. I can do that. Oh, God." It was a prayer rather than a curse. Wilson turned around and left, not even closing the exam room door. House walked over to shut it, then turned back to Mark, who had watched this scene with sympathetic interest.

"Now then, where were we?" House reinserted the stethoscope and listened to the other man's heart. "Your heart beat is pretty slow."

"It usually runs a bit slow," Mark said. "That's why my doctor put me on Norvasc; he said it was better for that than some others."

"It is, but patients can still develop a bad reaction to it. And this is pretty slow for a normal variant; if your doc put you on Norvasc at this baseline, he's a moron. I don't think your heart is working very efficiently here. Maybe it took a holiday yesterday while you didn't and is just late back, but I'd like to get a few studies."

Mark shook his head, politely stubborn mask sliding into place. "No. I told Michael I'd have an appointment with you, and I've done that, but there's no need to go further and worry everybody. I'm perfectly fine." To illustrate, he hit his feet, sliding abruptly off the table.

Too abruptly. His face went pale, and in the next second, House tried to catch him and only managed to control the fall as Mark crumpled to the floor. The other man's muscles started twitching as he went into a seizure, and House carefully held him away from banging his head on anything. "Need some help in here!" he bellowed. More softly, to the unconscious man in his arms, he said with satisfaction. "Like I said, we need to do a few more tests. With you out and your wife gone, looks like I'll have to call your brother, and I'll bet I know what he'll say." House's smile widened. "Checkmate."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Okay, broke this into 2 chapters, partly because of limited time available today to write things down in, partly because it was getting a bit long with plenty of meat on it already. Next chapter, possibly Monday . . . Hail to the Chief! (with a few surprises for all).

(H/C)

As it turned out, House didn't have to call Jensen. The staff had barely finished getting Mark stabilized and had just moved him to a gurney when his cell phone rang. House, with a fair idea of the caller, lifted it off Mark's still body as nimbly as a pickpocket and glanced quickly at the caller ID as he was already pushing the button. Yes, it was Jensen, his twin radar obviously sounding a red alert even from the next state. House raised the phone to his ear, ignoring looks from two of the hospital workers and an eye roll from Brenda.

"He can't come to the phone right now," House started, "but I do have a message."

Jensen's voice was tight with concern. "What's wrong? Something happened. He . . . just switched off."

"Pretty close, actually. He went into 3rd-degree heart block and collapsed."

The impact of that ricocheted around in silence for a second. "He had a heart attack?"

"Not quite; this is electrical, not ischemic. His heart completely lost rhythm. There's a short somewhere. We defibrillated him and got it back, and EKG now isn't showing any permanent myocardial damage, but it's still not normal, either. Until we can be sure of the reason this happened and get it fixed, I need to put in a temporary pacemaker. There is definitely something going on with his heart; I was narrowing it down to that on exam before he collapsed. But it's not CHF, and the EKG doesn't look suspicious for CAD. He also had a seizure when he collapsed. That could have been caused by the heart block, could be a separate issue, and we need to work that out, too. The differential is just starting. He's stable right now, but he definitely needs admission, and he needs to be on constant telemetry until we track this down. It wouldn't be safe for him to leave the hospital." Brenda was looking at him curiously now, wondering to whom he was giving this amazingly thorough and amazingly nonsarcastic and even perhaps sympathetic-toned update.

Jensen audibly took a deep breath. "If he'd gone into heart block outside the hospital, he could have died, couldn't he?"

"Total heart block like that, yes, easily. Unless he'd conveniently been standing next to a paramedic at the time."

"I'll come down to Princeton," the psychiatrist said quickly. House couldn't help a quick comparison to Wilson earlier. Jensen's voice was taut, his own stress level obviously climbing, but he was still functional, working out necessary details. House had no qualms about Jensen driving from Middletown to Princeton, although he would probably make excellent time getting here. But Wilson was on the edge of freaking out, truly unsafe to even drive around the block. Of course, Wilson was dealing with the crushing weight of guilt in addition to a possible medical crisis for his child.

Wilson. Had to check on Sandra and Wilson. It was starting to look like House would be forced into two cases at once, something he hated, but he couldn't very well drop either of them under the circumstances.

"You can even help me out down here," House said, returning his attention to Jensen. "He wasn't the picture of cooperation when he was awake, and he was in the process of walking out on me when he collapsed. He needs somebody he'll listen to to give him a swift kick. Meanwhile, I never actually got data or paperwork from him, and he's unconscious. I don't even know his wife's name. We need authorization from somebody to really get rolling on diagnosis and treatment."

"I've got proxy," Jensen replied quickly. "Me and his wife jointly, in case one is unavailable. I'll try to contact her, but I give you full permission right now to go ahead and do anything you think needs doing."

"Thank you," House said. Everybody around the gurney now was watching him, and the rare phrase drew a stare from two aides and a doubling of the curiosity quotient from Brenda. "See you in a few hours." He hit off and pointedly returned Mark's cell phone to his pocket. "Before we move him upstairs, let's give him another good boost of Ativan."

"But the seizure has stopped, Dr. House," an aide pointed out.

"Really? I hadn't noticed." All of his sarcastic bite was back in his tone there.

"You don't want him to wake up," Brenda deduced.

"We can't rule out the chance of another seizure popping up at some point. Might as well act preventatively."

"And you don't want him to wake up," Brenda repeated, not wavering.

House relented. "His next-of-kin is a hell of a lot more cooperative than he was being. At the moment, I've got carte blanche, and I don't want to waste diagnostic time trying to convince him he's really sick, just in case nearly dying wasn't a strong enough hint. Relax, I'll let him wake up in a few hours." Just as soon as Jensen was here to apply more leverage to his brother than House had.

Brenda sighed and fetched a loaded syringe, giving Mark another shot. House looked at the gurney non-pushers. "Come on, let's get this show on the road. It has wheels for a reason." The entourage made their way out of the clinic, and Brenda collected her thoughts and then did her best to return her attention to her work. At least the clinic wasn't quite as insanely busy now. Some of the patients waiting had left during the crisis, as if Code Blues might be contagious. Picking up the next chart, she gave one final look back at the doors. House had already disappeared.

"The one morning in a year he's been down here, and. . ." she muttered under her breath, then raised her voice. "Mrs. Brown, you're next. Exam Room Two, please, and the doctor will be right with you."

(H/C)

Foreman and Taub came from different directions in response to House's page and nearly collided in the door of the ICU room. House was standing inside at the foot of the bed, eying Mark and the monitors in turn. With some chemical assistance, Mark's heart rate was higher than the first reading in the exam room before it had crashed to zero, but the cardiac rhythm still wasn't normal. House heard the footsteps behind him and pivoted to face his team. "Meet our patient!" he announced brightly.

Taub gave a purely professional look at Mark and then the monitors, but Foreman did a brief double take. House ignored him. "40-year-old male, previously healthy other than hypertension controlled on Norvasc, has been having myalgias, nonrestorative sleep, and low energy for the last few weeks. Bradycardia on initial exam. Not that he admits to much of that; _he_ doesn't think anything's wrong and was saying that right up to the point where he went into complete heart block, collapsed, and had a seizure. Defibrillated him, sedated him, and pumped his heart rate back up. Oh, and there was a mildly positive chess test earlier."

Foreman came to life. "You mean stress test."

"No, I mean chess test."

Taub gave an inward sigh, but House was just waiting to be asked. They had to play his game sometimes to make any progress in conversation. "Okay, House, what was the chess test? Did he lose to you?"

"No, he beat me easily. Both games." That startled both of the other doctors. "He's a former state chess champion; I never expected to win. I was just performing a chess test. And in that test, he had a little bit more difficulty than he should have focusing on his game while I was doing my best to pester the hell out of him every time it was his turn."

"And this is supposed to be diagnostic of?" Foreman asked.

"General offness and slight irritability, trouble multitasking. He wasn't feeling well, even though he insisted he was. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, as they say. Okay, now you know the symptoms. Go."

Taub kicked it off. "Heart block can be either congenital or acquired, but 40 is awfully late to have a congenital case present initially. Whole string of possible reasons for acquired - infection, medication reaction, lots of things. Norvasc could even be the cause; we should definitely stop that for the time being. Seizure could have been cardiogenic kicked off by the block or could be a separate problem."

"House . . ." Foreman started reluctantly.

House ignored him, as the tone had been personal and not medical, therefore most likely irrelevant. "So, we put in a temporary pacemaker to keep him from shorting out on us again. CT head to rule out acute intracranial reason for a seizure. Start complete lab workup and studies to try to find the root problem."

"House," Foreman insisted more loudly.

"What is it?" House asked, annoyed. "Something to do with this medical case?"

"Yes, actually. I hate to bring it up, but . . . do you really think you are capable of working objectively on a case where your psychiatrist is the patient?"

Taub's head snapped up, and he looked from Mark to House and back to Mark.

House's voice was more annoyed now. "He's not my psychiatrist."

Of all possible objections, Foreman hadn't imagined that one. "But . . . I saw him that day in court, and when we were treating his daughter, too." Taub was starting to put it together, now, but since he had not been in court at the Chandler hearing, and he and Thirteen had been on the Middletown end of Cathy's case, Taub actually had less previous direct exposure to Jensen than anybody else on the team. Jensen had been around the hospital after the car accident when Abby was born, but he had been specifically publicly tied to Wilson, not House, hadn't been part of a case directly involving the fellows, and that had been over a year and a half ago.

"He's _not_ my psychiatrist," House insisted. "One more point to the history; the patient is an identical twin." Foreman relaxed slightly, the light dawning. "And you could have raised that concern privately."

"I'm . . . I apologize," Foreman covered. "It was relevant to the case, though. And nobody was in the room but Taub, and he already knows everyth. . ." Too late, Foreman realized that he shouldn't have said that either.

House glared at him. "Yes, the whole hospital knows that I'm totally screwed up, but I am _still_ the best damned doctor on the place, as well as your supervisor, and if you want to keep your job, start doing it. And anytime you think you need to question my personal involvement on a case, you ask me that _privately_." He started toward the door of the room abruptly. "Get to work on this one. I'm going to go check on Sandra and Wilson."

Taub had been feigning deafness out of self-preservation for the last minute, but he came back to life there. "What's wrong with Sandra and Wilson?"

"She came into the ER with premature labor, and he's chewing himself into worry fits." House left out the additional reason, which wasn't general knowledge outside of Sandra's medical records. "If the kid is born with complications" - at which point the additional reason _would_ become relevant knowledge for the team - "we're taking that case, too. Get busy." House left the room, still annoyed, and it showed in his shoulders and stride.

Taub watched him leave, then shook his head. "Nice going, Slick."

"It was a legitimate concern involving the case," Foreman protested.

Taub didn't answer, and after a moment, Foreman, too, moved in for closer evaluation of their patient.

(H/C)

Sandra had been admitted, and House found them up on the OB floor. He stood unnoticed in the door of the room for a moment. Sandra looked pale, drawn, and frightened, smaller and more fragile in the hospital bed. Wilson was sitting next to her, holding her hand. Wilson looked pretty strung out himself, but he was clearly trying to stay calm and focus on his girlfriend. House cleared his throat, and they both looked up. "How's the kid?" he asked.

"Okay on fetal monitoring," Wilson said. "They've put Sandra on antibiotics, steroids, and tocolytics IV."

House walked over to lean on the edge of the bed, facing Sandra directly. "Wilson asked me to take the case if the child has problems."

She relaxed a fraction at that, though she still looked scared. "Yes, please. I'd feel better knowing that myself."

"I just got reminded of something by Foreman's nonsubtlety on another point, though. Wanted to make sure you both realized this. If the team takes this case, they will get the records, and they will know _everything_."

Wilson flinched but then held steady. "If you could help the baby, that doesn't matter. My reputation doesn't matter if our son is safe." Sandra squeezed his hand lightly, appreciating the decision.

"Okay," House said. "How are the contractions?"

"Slowing down now," Sandra replied. "They never were regular, but they were real contractions, not just Braxton-Hicks. My BP was up some at first, too." As one, all three of them looked at the monitor.

"Well, just rest and think non-contractile thoughts. But page me if you need me. Got to get back to my patient."

"Thank you, House," Sandra said, with Wilson as a near-simultaneous echo. House was most of the way out of the room when Wilson spoke up.

"House? What about Jensen's brother? Were you examining him _medically_ earlier?"

House stopped and turned back to face them. "Yes. He went into 3rd-degree heart block and collapsed."

"Did you get him back?" Wilson asked sharply.

"Yes, but he's got something shorting his system out. I'm working on tracking it down. Jensen is coming down, by the way, but he'll probably be totally focused on his brother."

Wilson took a deep breath. "Of course. Hopefully I won't need him." He looked back at Sandra, feeling his heart sinking again. She was doing better now on meds, but if things went south . . . if she went back into labor . . . if the baby was born now . . . if there were problems, it was all his fault. The sword was swaying overhead now, its movement stirring up threatening air currents to swish through his mind.

"James?" Sandra was squeezing his hand, and he looked up. House had left the room, and Sandra was watching him closely.

"I'm okay. I just hope . . . he is." She looked away, and he saw the open fear on her face. "Hey, remember, House is on the job if we need him. And there are a lot of other possible answers. Everything could be perfectly fine with the baby. Just relax right now, okay? You need to rest, for you and for him."

She gave a tight smile. "Right. Everything could be perfectly fine."

Neither of them truly believed it.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: The chapter that keeps on giving. To my mind, last chapter, this chapter, AND the next chapter were all one. Amazing how much more compressed it looks mentally. Maybe the mental work is done in zip files. Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy chapter 8!

(H/C)

Sam drove like someone was chasing him. Princeton, the voices insisted. Got to get to Princeton. But he knew he had no chance of making the ceremony now. Maybe he could see his nephew and family afterward, at least. He still wasn't sure why it was so important to see them.

One year of careful savings was gone, swallowed up by the car, but neither that nor Princeton was Sam's main worry at the moment. The voices were getting worse the last few days, truly starting to frighten him, and physically, he felt like he was sitting on top of a hornet's nest. He was beginning to question to himself this morning whether being locked in a padded room would be a much worse fate than his current status. In immediate response to the thought, the barbed wire around his head heated up again. Sam gave an audible groan. Wasn't there _anybody_ who could help him? Hadn't anybody noticed? Okay, so he was a bit of a social hermit, and nobody is having extended conversations with the janitor during the work day. But part of him still felt hurt that the main concern of his employer and most of the few people in his life had been getting him back on the job, not truly asking how he was, not watching, not listening. They had left him alone with only the voices for company, and there was no family around to see him in life away from his janitor's cart.

The headache intensified, and Sam gritted his teeth, then groaned again as the swirling red and blue lights lit up behind him. "Shut UP!" he begged as he pulled over. "Just for five minutes, please shut up."

Amazingly, the voices complied, retreating to a low background murmur as the officer approached the window. Sam fished out his license and insurance card and handed them over. The officer studied them. "Do you know how fast you were going?" he started.

"Not exactly, but I know I was speeding," Sam admitted. He felt such a surge of relief at the decreased volume at the moment that he was almost grateful to the policeman. He'd gladly accept a ticket; a few minutes of relative peace was worth it.

The officer didn't seem in a hurry to pull out his ticket pad, though. "Is there some fire you thought you needed to get to?"

"My nephew is graduating today at Princeton," Sam explained. "I'm driving to see him, but the car broke down yesterday, and I couldn't get it fixed until this morning." He grabbed the bill from the garage, which was still sitting on the passenger's seat, and offered it as proof.

The policeman looked at the bottom line and winced. "What time is the graduation?"

"2:00."

"You aren't going to make it. Not even speeding."

Sam sighed. "I know. But maybe I could still see him after."

"Have you called him to explain?"

"No." A faint murmur from the voices there, who had been insistent on that point. "I wanted to surprise him. He doesn't know I'm coming. He . . . the family hasn't been on the best of terms with me. They're ashamed that I'm a janitor."

He definitely had the policeman's sympathy now. "Nothing wrong with being a janitor. The rest of the world would notice pretty quick if we didn't have them."

"Try telling _them_ that." This man seemed nice, actually, taking time to see the people he encountered in his own job as people. Sam wondered what would happen if he asked him for help.

He flinched as the barbed wire tightened up briefly, but the policeman, turning away, didn't notice. "I'll be back in a minute," he stated, heading for the patrol car.

Sam sat in his car, trying to breathe deeply, trying to regain the respite. Slowly, the barbed wire loosened up a little as the officer reapproached, but Sam could feel it hovering around the edges, just waiting to respond to any wrong action on his part. The officer handed him back his insurance and license, along with the receipt from the garage. "Well, you haven't got anything on your record. I'm going to let you go with just a warning; you've had enough unplanned expenses today. But slow down. You're going to miss the ceremony anyway, but you can still get there after. Maybe take him out to dinner tonight; McDonald's still counts, you know. It's the thought he'll remember."

"I will. Thank you, sir." Sam tucked the cards back into his wallet. _Help me_, he begged silently. The wire arced, and he winced.

"Are you okay?" the policeman asked, focus sharpening for a moment.

The wire was poised, glowing, red-hot points ready to dig into his skull if he gave the wrong response. "I've just got a headache," Sam lied.

The other man accepted it. "Drive carefully the rest of the day." He turned away and returned to his patrol car.

Sam started up again, keeping an eye on the speed this time. The man was right; he was never going to make it. The voices were kicking back up again. In an effort to provide any other noise besides the internal, Sam turned on the radio as he drove on toward Princeton.

(H/C)

Kutner fidgeted. He had obtained an excellent seat by getting here hours early and presenting his ID as an employee of the University, submitting without surprise to a search and a dog sniff on his way in. So far, though, all that seat had provided him was a view of a seemingly interminable line of robed graduates filing in, taking the seats on the floor of the large auditorium. Pomp and Circumstance lurched into its umpteenth ponderous repetition. The crowd was at capacity, of course. Each student had been allowed four tickets for family, and the rest of the seats had been on a first-come, first-served basis. Now the only room left was for a sense of anticipation.

The man next to Kutner shifted in his seat. "Come _on_!" he urged.

Kutner grinned. "Never realized how much I hated this song," he quipped, offering humor as a way to release the annoyance of waiting. "They need to pick up the tempo on it some. Drums would help, too. Maybe some acoustic guitar."

The man responded, relaxing a bit. "You have family here?"

Kutner shook his head. "I'm a doctor at PPTH, the teaching hospital. What about you?"

"Alumnus, class of 1993. I still work locally." They settled into social chit-chat as the interminable soundtrack continued.

Finally, the end of the procession of students came into view, and the crowd gave a restless rustle, like a line of cars stopped at the tracks that spots the approaching caboose. Conversation ceased as the final student took her seat. A few opening remarks, and then the Dean of the University stood up. His voice broke into the crowd's consciousness intermittently, like a radio going out of station range; nobody really wanted to listen to _him_. All eyes were glued to the tunnel that gave entrance to the floor below and the platform. "One of our own...very fortunate opportunity...memories of his own days as a student...fact should encourage every graduate of Princeton that your future is, indeed, limited only by your own aspirations... the President of the United States!"

The soundtrack started up again on Hail to the Chief, and the crowd broke into applause as the man himself came into view. The First Lady was with him, the Secret Service clustered protectively behind him, restless eyes searching the surroundings and the crowd. The President and his wife were all smiles, the practiced smiles of those who have gotten used to being on public display, for better or worse. They waved, and the crowd doubled its volume. They reached the couple of stairs up onto the platform.

The President stumbled, tripping slightly on the first stair.

He recovered quickly, shrugging it off, and a ripple of amusement swept across most of the crowd. It made him more personable, somehow, more like them, like seeing a celebrity drop his car keys or spill his drink. Stuff like that happened to everybody. They could identify.

Kutner wasn't amused. His eyes had tightened up, and he was looking at the President intently, switching to a totally different frame of reference. The man seemed to be moving his feet a little bit oddly, as if either his feet were slightly numb or his balance was off. It was subtle, but it was there. He looked a little pale, too, and tired. Of course, any President looks tired; the job had to be the champion at aging its tenants. But he didn't look like he was feeling well. Kutner glanced at the First Lady, going for a reading much closer to the source. Yes, she looked slightly worried underneath the public smile, and her eyes were on her husband as much as they were on the crowd.

The President stepped up to the podium and grasped it. "Thank you all for your warm welcome. I'm honored. I almost felt for a minute like you'd mistaken me for the basketball team." The crowd gave an appreciative roar, and he gave it a moment to die down. "Madeline and I are delighted to have the honor of being with you this morning - this afternoon." He corrected himself quickly, and they snickered. Kutner was watching in full diagnostic mode now. "I remember back in my own days at Princeton, sometimes I would wonder, is there any point to this? Of course, I'd wonder that in some classes more than others" - another ripple of laughter - "but I would ask myself at times. And I want to tell you today that yes, there _is _a point to this. Education is one of the most priceless gifts you can give yourself, even those required classes that you hate and that you are only taking for distro. Because it broadens your mind, it makes you think about the world and your place in it, and it informs you to be a better member of so-society." He tripped just minutely on that word. "And your education should not stop today. Wherever you go in life, don't ever stop learning, don't stop pushing ...your limits." He paused and ran one hand over his brow. The murmur of the crowd was concern that time. They were starting to see that something was wrong here. "So remember ... wherever you go in life ... to..." He sagged a little, gripping the podium more tightly. His wife stepped up and whispered something in his ear, and he shook his head firmly and started the sentence over. "Remember, wherever you go in life, to ..." He trailed off and shook his head again, not a negative this time but as if to clear it. His wife tugged at his arm, and he relented that time, allowing her to pull him away from the podium, but he only made it a step and a half before he totally collapsed.

Disbelief hit the crowd like a wave, and a few screams and gasps were heard. Some people were standing up now for a better look, some, of course, pulling out their cell phones as an automatic reflex for a call or text or Tweet of this breaking news. Kutner hit his feet, in full medical mode now, and bolted for the aisle. He pushed his way down and vaulted the low dividing wall onto the arena floor, racing for the platform - then skidding to a stop at the base of the steps, his eyes widening at the guns pointed at his chest.

"I'm a doctor!" he insisted. There was already a doctor, apparently - maybe the President traveled with one? But _somebody_ was bending over him in quick exam in the middle of the cluster of activity, somebody not being accosted for it by the Secret Service. "I can help."

"Don't move," one of the agents said, a quiet but absolute threat. Someone stepped up and quickly frisked Kutner.

"No weapons. No anything, I swear. Look, my hospital ID is in my wallet. I work at PPTH. I work under Dr. Gregory House; you might have heard of him. He's a world-famous diagnostician."

The First Lady, standing slightly to the side of her fallen husband to give the others room and clutching her hands tightly as she watched the people trying to assist him, caught the name and turned quickly. "Dr. Gregory House? You're Dr. House?" She deflated as Kutner's Indian features registered. "No, you aren't." This definitely wasn't the man she'd seen all over the TVs and read so much about back at the end of last year. Her husband had even sent him a letter of esteem and gratitude, duly acknowledged on hospital stationary a few weeks later.

Kutner gave her a hopefully literally disarming smile. "I'm not Dr. House, but I work for him. I can get him on your husband's case if you want. He's the best there is."

The First Lady approached him, and one Secret Service man reached out to stop her. She brushed off his hand impatiently. "Steve has been feeling off for the last few days. I _tried_ to get him to slow down and cancel some things, but he didn't want to disappoint people." She looked back worriedly at her husband, still in a beehive of activity, then toward Kutner, accepting him as House by proxy. "He's been under a lot of stress, of course, but he never actually collapsed before. Do you think you can help him?"

With a wary eye on the guns, Kutner fished out his wallet, showing his hospital ID. One agent picked it up for a closer look. "House can help him," Kutner insisted.

The apparent presidential doctor came to the edge of the platform and spoke to the First Lady. "We're taking him to the local hospital for a workup. I'm not sure what's going on here, Mrs. Whittaker, but his vital signs are stable, although he's still unconscious. We'll get him stabilized and then transfer him back to DC for more tests."

The First Lady stiffened up. "No," she insisted. "He's staying here until he's well. I insist that Dr. Gregory House take over his case." Dr. House _noticed _things. Surely the brilliant man who had recognized a serial child abuser where countless others had not could find out what was wrong with her husband. Firmly, the discussion over to her mind, she turned away from the sputtering doctor and returned to her husband's side. A gurney was being brought in from the tunnel now. The Secret Service men put away the weapons, but Kutner could still feel their eyes on him closely, and as much as he wanted to, he did not approach the fallen man more closely. _Wait for it_, he reminded himself, though his diagnostic instincts were twitching. _Your turn is going to come. _

Behind them, the stunned crowd was still watching, including the floor full of graduates who would definitely remember forever the day the President spoke at their commencement.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Another slice of the chapter that keeps on giving, as schedule forced me to chop it yet again. Chapter 7, part 3. Chapter 7, part 4, coming up next with yet more complications. Thanks for all the reviews. And for the case counters, things will become more clear to you next chapter and the one after that.

(H/C)

House was in the ICU studying the latest results when Jensen arrived. He wasn't the usual steady psychiatrist, though; he was purely worried family member at the moment, as he had been on Cathy's case. House glanced at his watch as he saw Jensen entering the ICU. As predicted, the other man had made excellent time.

"How's he doing?" Jensen asked immediately.

"He's stable. Come here." House walked over to the door of Mark's room.

Jensen absorbed the monitors, all the equipment, and felt utterly helpless. Mental mazes he was good at running, but this was different. He looked back at House, concern gnawing into his tone. "He's still unconscious? It's been a few hours."

"That's because I've kept him sedated," House admitted. "At the point he collapsed, he had just refused any of the further testing I wanted to do, and he was walking out. He wasn't feeling well then, even though he wasn't admitting it, but there's a chance he could be feeling a lot better now, because we've put in a temporary pacemaker. His heart is being held in correct rhythm right now. I didn't want him to wake up, conclude that he's all better, and try to go walking out again."

Jensen sighed. "I was hoping he'd listen to you when he got an actual medical opinion. He can turn into a polite rock sometimes, especially if you're trying to convince him he's sick. I had a lot more trouble getting him to agree to today than I did with you. He was always seen by everybody as the responsible one growing up, and it had some carryover. He doesn't think he has the right to get sick." House, thinking of Cuddy, could sympathize. "Do you know what's causing this yet?" Jensen continued.

"No. There are dozens of possible causes; we're just starting to run down the list. The first thing that jumps out at me is severe medication reaction, and blood pressure meds are prime candidates for that. This is a rare side-effect of them but very bad when it happens. We've stopped his Norvasc, but of course, it will take that a while to wear off. Infections are another possibility, and that requires specific testing and ruling out each one. I'm assuming he hasn't had a habit of just keeling over sometimes in life so far?" Jensen shook his head. "Didn't think so. Surely somebody would have caught it by now if it was congenital. So there's some added factor at the moment that's knocked him into it. So far, we put in the temporary pacemaker, which should keep his heart stable, but that's just treating the result, not the cause. We also did a CT to make sure he didn't have any acute reason for a seizure, like a bleed. That was clean, and EEG looks okay. Complete heart block can trigger a seizure, but we can't assume that was the reason. So we're still not sure if we're tracking down one problem or two."

"He's stable now though?"

"Yes, in the ICU, on continuous monitoring and pacing, he's stable at the moment, but we haven't diagnosed him yet, much less fixed it. If he tries to leave, he's a walking time-bomb, and he might not be as lucky where he collapses next time."

The psychiatrist stared at his brother in the hospital bed. "I'll talk to him," he said, cast-iron resolve underneath his tone. "He isn't going to be going anywhere."

"The floor is all yours," House said with satisfaction. "Polite rock is a good description for it. I was even trying to get him annoyed earlier, to see if I could knock him off guard, and he got just a little irritated with me, but that was it. He was still totally locked down on admitting to any symptoms. And he _definitely_ was having some symptoms."

"How were you trying to annoy him?" Jensen asked, curious.

"We played a couple of games of chess, and I was peppering him with medical history questions any time it was his turn. I would have bitten the other person's head off by the end of those games."

Jensen was impressed at the idea of diagnostic chess, but before he could say anything else, they were interrupted. .

"House!" Cuddy's voice rang across the ICU with all the crisp command of a Marine drill sergeant calling the morning roster to order. All PPTH staff not named House automatically came to attention at the tone. House himself didn't, but he turned to face her, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yes, mistress?" His tone was nonchalant, a marked contrast to hers, but his shoulders had a slightly stubborn set already.

Cuddy noticed with an internal sigh. She surged across the ICU, glad she had hunted him down in person, even if it had taken her a few extra minutes. It was always a coin flip with House whether he would answer or ignore a page, and she knew he had had an interesting appointment planned for today. If that had extended into further tests, he would not be inclined to leave it for anything less than a face-to-face summons, and even that wouldn't be easy. Getting House _off_ a case he'd gotten his teeth into was far harder than getting him to take one in the first place. "Need you _now_." She looked at Jensen, standing beside him in the doorway to the room. "I apologize, but he's going to have to finish your appointment some other time. Something more urgent came up."

House shook his head. "I doubt it. Mark's in _there_." He nodded toward the room behind them.

Cuddy peered in between the two men, then looked back at Jensen, then to Mark, and back again. "It's easy to tell them apart," House noted. "_This_ one is healthy; _that_ one nearly died a little while ago and now is in the ICU on full telemetry. Just look for the wires, and there's no confusion. And I've already got a pressing case here, so whatever you think is more urgent is going to have to wait."

Cuddy felt her heart sinking as she realized exactly what she was going to have to ask House to do. "What's wrong with him?" she asked.

"I don't know yet, which is why it's a case for the diagnostic department," House replied. "His heart has a major short in it and tried to fry itself. Could be a lot of reasons; we're just getting started."

She sighed, looking from House to Jensen and then back to House. Easier to look at him than Jensen, because Jensen also had her intentions pegged at the moment and had a sizable personal stake in this face-off. "Maybe part of your team can keep running tests here, but for now, I'm going to have to pull you away from this one."

"No," House said. "First come, first served. Just because some big donor came in. . ."

"It's the President," Cuddy stated. "He collapsed at his speech. They just brought him in." Jensen was listening, as was half of the ICU staff by now, but that much was hardly protected medical information, given that it had happened in front of several thousand people. No doubt it was already on the radio as well as crawling across the bottom of TVs across the country as breaking news.

Jensen was the first to shift, automatically looking back into the room at Mark, fighting his initial reaction. He knew that objectively, in the scales, the President counted for much more than his brother did. Of course the President would be the priority case. But knowing the objective fact didn't keep it from stirring up anger in him. Cuddy was looking both guilty and sympathetic, hating doing this, but he knew she was still going to do it anyway, and of course, as hospital administrator, she had no choice. The hospital's best doctor would be pulled from whatever existing cases he had to take that one. The mere fact that the President was the President gave him first call.

Cuddy really _did _hate this. She was still trying not to look at Jensen. The psychiatrist said nothing, but House did, the same answer as previously. "No. I already said I'd take this one, and it's a critical case."

"Greg, you haven't got a choice. _I _haven't got a choice." Not looking at Jensen was almost making her eyes hurt by this point. "Let's go talk about this privately, okay?" They didn't need to be standing here in front of the man talking about how a political VIP was a more important case than his family. It might be an unfortunate political fact, but having to say it directly to him was too hard. "Come on. We can continue this discussion in my office."

Taub re-entered the ICU just then, bearing initial blood work, and House spotted him. He reached out and touched Jensen's forearm lightly. "I am _not_ dropping this case," he assured him, softly but firmly. He raised his voice. "Taub, anything yet?"

"Not so far. We're . . ."

"Okay, you and Foreman keep running tests. I'll be back; page me if you need me." He started off at a brisk limp toward the ICU main door. Cuddy caught up with him with reluctant resolve, and they walked together to her office, neither saying a word on the way.

She closed the door and turned to face him. As expected, he had stopped in the middle of her office floor, making no move toward sitting down even though his leg was bothering him. He stood there at his full height, and she could feel the irritation in him growing now. "I am _not_ dropping that case. That one really needs me, and I promised Jensen. The President probably has the flu or something. You don't even know yet, do you?"

"Outside of the fact that he passed out, no, I don't know his symptoms. But we agreed to treat him if needed as part of being the hospital on standby. He is automatically a priority case if he shows up; that was part of the arrangements. I acknowledged that a few weeks ago."

House paced a limping circle. "But he wasn't supposed to show up."

"The First Lady is also specifically requesting you. Kutner apparently told her right after it happened that you'd take the case."

House groaned and came to a stop. "Kutner. Yes, of course, Kutner would be right in the middle of that volunteering me. Maybe Kutner can take the case; it would serve him right."

"Maybe it's not that hard of a case. You might be able to solve it in five minutes; you never know until you look at him." She sighed. "Greg, I feel awful about this, too. How bad is Mark?"

"He nearly died. That wasn't an exaggeration. Unless I figure it out, he could nearly die again tomorrow, unless he wants to live the rest of his life hooked up in the ICU." He looked back at her, still defiant. "I am _not_ giving up that case. I can't. He's Jensen's brother."

"Greg, as the hospital, we don't have a choice here. We have to make the President a priority case. And like I said, his wife is specifically asking for you. Okay, I understand if you can't drop Mark totally, but maybe the team can be divided."

He shook his head. "Or maybe _I _can be divided. I guess I'll just have to do both of them. But I'm not shortchanging Mark for the President. And then there's Wilson, too."

Cuddy straightened up. "_Wilson_? What else has happened today?"

"You didn't know that yet either?"

"No. I've had appointments all day, even had one at lunch. What's wrong with Wilson?"

"Sandra was brought in in preterm labor."

Cuddy closed her eyes, one hand going to her own abdomen as sympathy for the other woman stabbed her almost physically. "Did they get it stopped?"

"On hold for the moment, but she's been admitted for close monitoring. Wilson, of course, is nearly freaking out. Preterm labor is one of the signs of neonatal HSV-2. I promised him earlier that if the baby is born and has problems, I'll take that case. That was right before Mark coded. So I've actually got 1 1/2, heading for two cases already, even without the President, but I can't drop either one of those. If I take him, I'm potentially looking at three."

Cuddy felt another stab of worry, this one for more than Sandra, Wilson, and Jensen. As much as she and many others around the hospital made an exasperated point of the fact that House only took one case at a time, everybody who'd ever seen him in action knew the real reason, more than just laziness or boredom or excessive pickiness. He had only two speeds, off and on, and he brought such singleminded, blazing intensity of focus to a case that working multiple at once like that was a frightening prospect. But he was unable to work any other way, unable to slow down and delegate without fully engaging mental gears himself. As long as the diagnosis was unknown, he would be going at full throttle, even if only up in front of the whiteboard and not in the patient's room. House on three cases would not be 33 1/3% on each but rather 300%. Eventually, there had to be a point when the wheels simply fell off. Any employee of any duration at the hospital had already seen him push himself often to the brink of physical endurance just with one at a time.

But Jensen and Wilson . . . he was right. He could not possibly back out on either of them, not when there really was a critical medical need there that he could fill better than anybody else. Mark's life and the baby's life had far better odds with him on board.

And the President . . .

She sighed. "Maybe the President just has flu, like you said. But we have to check him out, Greg. If it were my decision alone, I'd pick another doctor until I was sure you were needed. But in this case, I don't have any choice, anymore than you do on the other two. Let's just hope it's an easy one."

He looked at her, seeing the personal concern now, the concern for _him_ that hadn't been there before. "He probably just ate something for lunch that didn't agree with him," he said, trying to defuse the tension through humor.

She grinned. "I hope so. Just check him out, Greg, and hopefully he's fine, and you can get back to Mark. And Sandra."

"Hopefully not Sandra yet," he said, but there wasn't a lot of confidence in his tone there. "But I _will not_ give up Mark's case. Not just the team; me. No matter what others get added."

She nodded, accepting it reluctantly. "Okay. Just be careful, Greg."

He closed the distance and gave her a hug. "I'm always careful. I am a constant model of medical tact, restraint, and decorum."

She laughed outright there. "Yeah, right. Oh, Greg, one thing you need to know before you meet the President."

He had been starting for the door, but he stopped at her words. "What?"

"He sent you a short letter last fall. How you were an inspiration, example to citizens, etc."

He rolled his eyes. "Back at Patrick's hearing?"

"Yes." Patrick's full trial would be this summer, and neither of them were looking forward to that, but she knew that her husband was trying not to think of him in the meantime until he had to. House had no idea the amount of mail that had come into the hospital mentioning his involvement. "You also replied to the President."

"I did?"

"You wrote back a nice short acknowledgment, just said that you were doing what any other doctor would have done and so forth. Anyway, they probably remember that note, so don't be surprised if it gets mentioned."

"Great. Just what I needed to make this day complete; let's bring Patrick Chandler back into it." He limped out of the office. She winced in sympathy and hurried to join him. "Where is the Great White Chief, anyway?" he asked.

"They're taking over 3 West. Easy wing to isolate. Security is very tight, of course."

"Theirs, I hope. Ours has had a few holes in the past."

"Theirs plus ours, and ours has improved. But theirs is the best there is." They entered the elevator, and she punched 3, then turned to him as the doors shut, leaving them alone together in the car. "I'm sorry about this, Greg," she said, and they melted together.

House was in a little better mood as he exited the car a minute later. 3 West was already bristling with Secret Service personnel, and both of them had to present ID and get searched, including a careful inspection of House's cane, as well as verified as themselves by a member of PPTH security, after which they were added to the approved list.

Just beyond the initial security blockade was Kutner, practically dancing like a dog who has fetched a particularly enticing ball and cannot wait for the master to join the imminent game. "House! Looks like I found a case for you."

House pushed on without even hesitating. "Kutner," he started.

"What?" Kutner turned and hurried forward along the hall beside his boss.

House turned to glare at him. "You're grounded."


	10. Chapter 10

The first thing House heard as he approached the door to the last patient room on the heavily guarded wing was an annoyed presidential proclamation. "Maddie, there is _nothing_ wrong with me. I hadn't eaten enough on the run today, and I got a little hypoglycemic. That's all. I'm _perfectly_ fine."

"Interesting that you should say that," House stated as he entered. "I've heard somebody else say that recently right before he nearly died. Moral: Unless you have an MD behind your name, you might not actually be that accurate of a judge of being_ perfectly fine._"

The President, in the hospital bed, and his wife, bending over him, both turned to look at the new arrival. Cuddy spoke up quickly, going for more formal introductions than her husband had. "I'm Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House, Dean of Medicine at the hospital, and this is . . ."

"Oh, Dr. _House._" The First Lady came quickly across the room, seized House's hand, and nearly pumped it off with her vigorous shake. "It's an honor to meet you. Steve and I heard so much about you last fall. You really are an inspirational story."

Cuddy flinched. That was hardly the best approach to get House's cooperation, and his interest, which had been sharpening up a bit perversely at the President's firm denial, started to wither again. She had warned him, but she'd hoped that they could get at least 5 minutes into the conversation before Patrick Chandler, or, even worse, John House, was brought up.

Before House could reply, another man entered the conversational fray. This was the presidential doctor. "I _do_ have MD behind my name, Dr. House, and he was somewhat hypoglycemic. They did a fingerstick in the ER and then gave him some glucose as soon as he got here; he regained consciousness fairly quickly. I would like to get a complete workup just as a precaution, but there's no reason to do it here rather than back in DC."

"Yes, there _is_," the First Lady insisted. "Steve has been feeling off for a day or two, even if he won't admit it, and Dr. House is here. I'd feel much better with a full workup from him." The look she gave the presidential doctor showed clearly that there was bad blood between these two.

"Dr. House isn't needed for this," the doctor replied with smooth professionalism, adopting an "I'm trying to be reasonable here in contrast to this purely emotional argument on the other side" tone.

House was starting to enjoy this sparring match, his interest reawakening. "Oh, it might not hurt to make good and sure he's stabilized before transfer. It's not every day I get a chance to see the President, after all."

"Thank you," the First Lady replied. "We're not going _anywhere_ until you say he's fine."

The President spoke up in exasperation. "Maddie, _I _have a vote here, too. This is a democracy, after all."

"Nope," House corrected him pleasantly. "It's a republic. I'd expect you of all people to know that; isn't constitution sort of a required course for you?"

"House!" Cuddy hissed under her breath.

"You don't want to upset the American people," the doctor suggested. "A stay here might make them think something really _was_ wrong."

"Something _is_ wrong," the First Lady insisted.

"Upsetting the American people is pretty much a required course for Presidents, too," House pointed out. "No matter what it is you're doing, a good percentage of them won't like it. Might as well upset them for once about something that sparks off concern instead of blame."

His wife played the marriage card. "This is _not_ up for vote, and you're not going anywhere, Steve."

House stepped closer to the bed, walking right past the doctor, who was about to produce another objection. "Great, now that that's settled. You don't have diabetes, do you?"

"No," the President said sulkily. He still didn't like this, but whatever cards his wife held over him, bedroom or otherwise, were clearly high-ranking ones.

"Didn't think so. If you did, somebody around you would have had glucose, and you wouldn't have had to wait until arrival here to get it." The First Lady looked impressed at House's first shot out of the gate. "About these symptoms you haven't had for the last few days, what are they?"

The President locked up there, looking away, and his wife spoke up. "Upset stomach, vomiting twice the other night -"

"I ate something that disagreed with me; happens to everybody," her husband put in.

"- tiredness, just generally not feeling well. And he hasn't been eating much since that first time."

"I've just been busy," the President protested. "And of _course_ I'm tired. Anybody would be at this job. But I'm not any tireder than usual."

"Has he been tripping?" Kutner interjected from behind House.

"Tripping?" House repeated, turning to face his fellow.

"He tripped on the stair up to the platform. He was placing his feet just slightly off, too, like his balance was a little skewed or maybe peripheral neuropathy. Could have been due to general weakness from hypoglycemia, but it looked more feet specific to me."

"Not bad," House conceded, and Kutner smiled at the praise. "But you're still grounded," House continued irresistibly. He turned back to the bed. "Tripping? Neuropathy? That's decreased feeling in your feet, for the non MD-behind-the-name version."

"No," the President replied.

His wife took a little longer to think about it. "Not before today."

"Get up for a minute and walk across the room for me," House ordered. The President slipped out of bed. He took a circuit of the room, and House watched him, head tilted, wheels visibly spinning behind the blue eyes. "Okay, that's enough." The President returned promptly to the bed, House noted, instead of insisting stubbornly on staying upright. Like Mark, he was definitely not feeling up to par, and like Mark, he had no intention of admitting to that fact. Hopefully the similarities wouldn't extend as far as the imminent Code Blue. House captured a foot and examined it closely once the man was back in the bed. "Okay, we'll run a thorough workup. Kutner, good call." Kutner visibly expanded a full shirt size.

"I didn't see anything wrong with his gait," the presidential doctor protested. "He's a little weak, maybe, but he did just collapse very recently."

"Moral number two: Not all people with MD behind their names are created equal," House said. "You'll probably see Kutner as much as you do me, but I am on the case. We'll start some tests. Kutner, we're all meeting in the conference room for a few minutes. Then you can come back and get a full history. Be sure you get it from her, too, and not just him. The everybody lies rule counts double for politicians." He turned around and limped quickly out of the room while the First Lady was still thanking him.

Cuddy and Kutner quickly followed. "Thank you, House," she said, breathing a sigh of relief that the President was proving interesting enough to get his attention.

"Oh, this could be fun. I'm apparently running a special advertised price today on patients who don't really want me; Mark has the same I'm-fine-itis." House pulled out his cell phone, texting the rest of the team for a meeting, as he threaded his way back through the impressive security to the elevator.

(H/C)

"Three cases," House stated. He divided the whiteboard into three columns and labeled them MJ, Prez, and Wilson, Jr. "Only two at the moment, but I'm afraid it's going to turn into three before long. If Wilson and Sandra's kid makes an early appearance and has problems, we get that one, too. For now, I'll give him a question mark." He added one and left that column blank, wrote in initial symptoms for the other two, then turned to face his fellows. "For the sake of efficiency, you all are going to be divided, although I'll leave all three columns posted together. If something occurs to you on one of the other cases, speak up. Kutner, you get the President."

Kutner smiled. "And just hope that you don't have to break into _his_ house," his boss continued, and the smile froze a little, imagining the difficulties.

"Foreman, you're on Mark. Taub for the moment will be two-timing, which ought to be a familiar position for him" - Taub gave him a slight nod to acknowledge the barb - "but if the kid decides to join us, Taub will focus primarily on that case." Which also would be cutting Wilson as much of a break as House could. Taub of all of them was the least likely to plug into the gossip chain on Wilson's extracurricular activities and their results once he learned of them. "So at the moment, initial tests, more thorough history. Get busy."

"Which case are you going to be focusing most on?" Kutner asked, hoping it would be his.

"All of them," House replied.

There was a moment of silence as even Foreman was rocked a bit at that. Foreman actually was startled the most. He would never forget a night the other two hadn't witnessed, House on the case of the kid with Erdheim-Chester disease. House had been truly frightening that night, and he had almost physically collapsed at the end of it. Now, faced with two cases where he had a personal stake and one where Cuddy would require his best, the immediate future looked even more intense. "House," he said, then paused, remembering. "Could I speak to you privately?"

House was tempted to go ahead and bite his head off here, having a good idea of the objection, but he did want to reinforce the earlier lesson he'd given Foreman. "Yes. Taub, Kutner, get to work." Taub left briskly and Kutner reluctantly, wishing he could listen in on the upcoming conference. House stood up and limped into his office, and Foreman followed.

"I'm not sure you are capable of working three major cases as primary," Foreman started.

"You've never seen me try it, so how would you know?" House countered.

"I've seen you several times on just _one_ where you had a personal stake. That kid with Erdheim-Chester. Amber. Here, you've got a personal stake on two out of three, and Cuddy will want the President to have top billing."

"Your concern is duly noted," House replied. "Now drop it and get to work. I'm only asking _you_ to focus mainly on one."

Foreman hesitated. "You nearly collapsed that night, House. And you half killed yourself with Amber."

"If I collapse, you have permission to be primary on your case only until I wake up again," House countered. "But I _will_ be working all three of them. Equally. Conference over." House turned and walked out of the office. Foreman sighed and looked back at the whiteboard with its three columns. He'd done his best to object, at least; he wasn't responsible for the fall-out from here. With another sigh, he headed back for his own patient.

(H/C)

Jensen sat in the ICU, watching Mark. The steady beep of the monitors was both reassuring and frightening, reassuring because it confirmed that Mark was stable, frightening because Jensen knew that the stability was electronically mandated. Switch off the pacemaker, and things would change quickly.

His brother had nearly died. If he had collapsed an hour earlier, on the highway, or yesterday out working, the result could easily have been different. Jensen's own pulse sped up just thinking about it. If the timing had been a little off, or if Jensen had been a little less persistent last week. Mark definitely had not wanted to do this, and Jensen finally won his cooperation only by promising that if Mark simply spent an hour with House and House agreed nothing was wrong, he would drop it forever, and Mark's family would never have to know.

House had been back through the ICU, checking on Mark again, and had told Jensen at that point that he was staying on the case, would be working on both at once. He had also mentioned then that Sandra had been admitted, with her child as a potential third patient. Jensen wrote himself a mental note to go check on Wilson once he had a chance; he knew that the oncologist would be drowning in panicked guilt. But Wilson would have to wait. Jensen didn't need to be anywhere else besides where he was; Mark for him had to come first. Once Mark's wife arrived, they would be able to spell each other for some sleep and break time, but given Mark's uncooperativeness so far, Jensen had no intention of ever leaving him alone. He had even gotten a nurse to stay here for 10 minutes half an hour ago while he went down to buy a sandwich. No, there was no question where his own primary focus needed to be right now. He wished Wilson well mentally, but he would not be available for any more at the moment. Wilson would have to sink or swim on his own.

House. The idea of House potentially working three cases at once scared Jensen for him, too. He _knew_ how much House threw into his work, and he knew that there were personal incentives here at least with Mark and the baby. House was going to run himself to the limit and hopefully not too far beyond this week. Jensen never could have asked him to do that; that went far past just a favor to endangering House's own health. Still, the psychiatrist selfishly was glad of House's decision for Mark's sake. He could only hope that the other two cases would be easy ones and soon over. He would have no time professionally to spare for House at the moment, either, but the gratitude was the only emotion as strong at the moment as the worry.

Mark shifted slightly and gave an unintelligible murmur, and Jensen came to attention. House was letting the sedatives wear off now; it was up to Jensen to keep him here.

A few minutes later, his brother opened his eyes and looked around, confused. "Welcome back," Jensen said.

Mark quickly focused on him. "What happened?" He started to sit up, and Jensen pushed him back down firmly.

"Your heart stopped, and you had a seizure." Jensen sighed. "You nearly _died_, Mark."

"Don't exaggerate things, Michael."

"I'm not. House got you back, but if you hadn't been right here in a hospital . . ."

"I remember now; I just got up too fast off the exam table. I passed out."

"No!" Jensen said sharply. "You _didn't_ just pass out. And you aren't going to be leaving any time soon, either. There's something wrong with your heart."

"That can't be right; nobody in our family has any history of heart disease, and I run all the time. No chest pain or anything. I just got up too fast. I'm feeling better now," Mark insisted.

"That's only because they have you on a pacemaker, and it's making your heart behave at the moment." Mark noticed the wires for the first time. He ran a hand over them as if questioning if they were real. "Something else you need to know before you say you don't want to worry the others. I've already called Pam; she's dropping her vacation and getting back here as soon as she can, hopefully by tomorrow night. I also already told Brian and Courtney."

Mark stared at him in disbelief. "You told my _kids_? They're just kids, Michael."

"And they got a more limited version than Pam did. But 10 and 8 are old enough to face the truth. They know you collapsed, that something is wrong with your heart, and that you're in the ICU. They're scared, but they should be. Melissa has them still, of course, along with Cathy. And yes, Melissa and Cathy know, too."

Mark shook his head. "You're blowing this way out of proportion."

"No, I'm not. But the point is, you have no chance right now to avoid worrying the others. Try to leave without getting diagnosed, and you'll just worry them even more. It's too late to hide from people, Mark."

Mark was getting as annoyed as he ever did. "You had no right to do that, Michael."

"Yes, I did. I've got proxy. I kept it a secret all last week for you, but I won't anymore. You nearly _died_, Mark." Jensen leaned over closer to him. "Listen, big brother." The private nickname was an old joke between them; Mark was an entire 12 minutes older than Michael. "I have lost way too much family in my life. I can't stop myself from losing more, but from now on, what I can control, I'm going to. And it's never again going to be because of something that I might have changed. We can't handcuff you to the bed, but if you leave now, you'll only scare everybody worse, and there really is a chance you'll have another episode and die. What do you think it would do to your kids if you collapsed and died right in front of them?"

Mark looked away, irritation warring with affection. "You aren't going to lose me, Michael."

"Not if I can help it, anyway."

Mark looked around, taking in the ICU, all of the machines. They really did have him hooked up to an impressive number of things. Part of him still insisted this was all an overreaction, but the medical equipment was sobering. "I don't want Brian and Courtney to see me hooked up to all this stuff."

"They're still in Middletown. ICU restricts kids visiting, anyway. They probably won't come down here until things start getting better - or worse. Pam is different. She'll be here as soon as she can get back."

Mark sighed. "It's not going to get worse, Michael." His brother had his stubborn look on and wasn't giving an inch. Mark was still irritated that even his children had been told, but that did eliminate any last hope he might have had of not worrying them. "I want to talk to them."

Jensen pulled out his cell phone and offered it, then sat back down in the visitor's chair.

No, he wasn't going anywhere. And neither was his brother.

(H/C)

Cuddy walked through the lobby of PPTH, running a mental checklist. She normally would have gone home by now, but she had already called to arrange the babysitter taking over from Marina. There were too many administrative details that had needed tied up this evening, final arrangements for the President being here. The press, for one. Fortunately, the President came with his own spokesman, and he would be handling all releases, but the media was already on the story, of course. Cuddy had had to arrange the auditorium for them and see that a schedule of updates was known and that they would not be disrupting any hospital functions. The isolation of 3 West was complete, and all the security was worked out logistically. Again, that had been an administrative balancing act, recognizing the need to have the President in an impregnable location but also considering all the other patients and families in PPTH at the moment. The President might be the most important patient by far, but he wasn't the only one.

She also had wanted to keep an eye on House for a while. He was going full steam in initial testing on both of his cases, although he had divided up the team. Cuddy had brought him a Reuben a little while ago and ensured that he ate that and took his meds. She had also been to visit Sandra and Wilson. Both of them were frightened, but Sandra's labor seemed to be on hold at the moment. Cuddy hoped for their sake and also somewhat for House's that this was a false alarm, but the whiteboard in House's suite spoke otherwise. She had seen those three columns. House himself didn't think Sandra was going to make it to term.

Alongside the logistics and the worry, though, came the pride. Pride in her hospital, pride in her husband. PPTH had had a tough day, but they had dealt with it well. House was on the case, the genius doctor whom even the President's family esteemed enough to request by name. And when he solved it - and he _would_ solve it, because he was House - even more prestige would accrue to him and to PPTH. She wanted to show him off to the world. He deserved the accolades, even if he hated them, and unlike last fall, here was a chance for him to be in the news purely medically, not for his past. Maybe when the Chandler trial started in a month and a half, he even might be known at least equally to the media as the doctor who had just saved the President rather than the doctor who had overcome his own past of abuse and had recognized his younger self in Christopher Bellinger.

She looked around the lobby. All was working smoothly, no media circus disrupting traffic flow for families, no obvious differences (except in the privacy of 3 West, which was a veritable fortress), just routine efficiency. And House upstairs, doing what he did best. She was still worried, but she also felt satisfaction at how her domain was dealing with everything.

The light evening traffic of visitors ran smoothly past her, coming and going, but to any of them who took a moment to notice, her air of being in control was unmistakable right now. No one would have possibly dismissed her as merely a family member or as some low-level employee. Thus it was that the man entering the main doors right then and looking around picked her unerringly out of everyone in the lobby.

"Are you in charge here?" a voice asked behind her.

Cuddy turned around, straightening up in acknowledgment. "Yes, I'm the Dean of Medicine here. Can I help you with something?" A pleasant, nondescript-looking man. He definitely wasn't media, but he didn't strike her as family, either, though he seemed somewhat keyed up as many family visitors often were. The only remarkable thing about him was his eyes, and they bothered her on some level she couldn't define. The expression wasn't quite one she could categorize into any of her known mental files.

"Is there somewhere we can talk?" the man asked, looking around at the early evening traffic in the lobby.

"Of course. My office is right this way." She led the way to her office and held the door for him, then closed it, granting them privacy, and walked around to sit at her desk. "How can I help you, Mr.?" She paused invitingly, but he didn't offer his name.

He looked around the office for a moment, then straight back at her, and she flinched slightly and felt a cold chill run up her back at those eyes. What was it that bothered her about them? She still couldn't put her finger on it. "The President is here. They said on the radio."

"Yes, he is. Are you with the media?"

In the next second, she had something far more disturbing than his eyes to look at. She gulped as she stared down the cold, metal barrel of the gun. "I need you to take me to him," he said, and the tone amazingly was still pleasant, almost conversational.

Cuddy's thoughts scrambled, desperate for any option, any course of action, but that gun was unwavering. Her eyes automatically fled to a picture on her wall, House, herself, and the girls. The man gave it a quick glance, following her gaze. "Your family," he stated, and the word on his lips was almost a twisted parody of itself, such bitterness and disappointment there.

"I . . ." Cuddy took a deep breath. Think, damn it. Do something. "You know I can't take you to the President," she stated, trying to be reasonable. "There's no way you would ever get all the way to see him, even with me with you. What you're asking is impossible."

"Then you'll never see any of your family again," he replied, his voice tightening up, and the gun raised, aiming directly at her face, as his finger twitched against the trigger.


	11. Chapter 11

Cuddy's heart stopped as she fully recognized that expression in his eyes.

This man was crazy. This wasn't a dodge from responsibility like Patrick Chandler; this man was truly _insane_. Logic was useless here against his reality; there would be no reasoning with him or talking him out of it. Things really were that cut and dried to him; she could get him to the President, or he would have to kill her and no doubt then would go find somebody else and continue his demented quest until it hit its inevitable end.

"I . . ." she started. Her eyes darted back to the family picture, then returned to the gun. "Okay, I will. Let me think how best to do it." The finger moved away from the trigger a fraction. She was trying not to look at his eyes now, trying to fight the panic. His eyes were even worse than the gun. To look at them would be to fall in and drown, and she had to keep thinking.

The whole idea was absurd, of course. The President was at the end of the hall on 3 West, and the place was a buzzing hive of security all the way down from the initial checkpoint. There was _no_ chance of any potential assassin getting even halfway, and Cuddy vouching for him wouldn't make any difference. The very fact that he thought this was a viable plan, that on her say-so a stranger could be led straight to the commander in chief, emphasized that he wasn't thinking straight.

What to do? She thought of Greg, wishing for his brilliant differential ability. He would be sitting here thinking of options instead of shaking inside with fear. But she couldn't rid herself of the image of never seeing her family again. House, the girls. Their happy family could be shattered forever in only a second by some outsider's bullet.

"You're going to take me to him," the man repeated, getting impatient again.

Cuddy tried to give her frozen mind a kick to jolt it into action. Panic does nothing, Lisa. _Think_. Staying here would get herself killed quickly and accomplish nothing, simply setting him loose on the rest of the unsuspecting hospital; she had to take him somewhere. On the other hand, taking him anywhere other than 3 West would endanger innocent patients, families, employees.

The only place she _could_ take him, really, was indeed the presidential wing. He would never get through, obviously, but security would take him down, hopefully with a well-aimed bullet that would avoid her. Maybe they could even disable him without killing him; they probably would want to interrogate him, and maybe he could get some badly needed mental help after that. The safest place to take him - for herself and the hospital - was precisely where he wanted to go, and the best answer to this crisis was to bring him down as soon as possible.

"I'm thinking through the security process," she stalled. "Figuring out how to do this. Okay, I'll take you. He's up on 3 West." If anything happened to her, hopefully he would head that way on his own now, not endangering other bystanders along the way.

Just then there came a thud outside the doors to her office as an employee passing by dropped an armful of charts. With a muffled curse, he knelt to pick them up. The gunman turned, startled at the sound, taking his eyes off Cuddy for a few seconds, and in that brief window of opportunity, she dropped her hand into the pocket of her business jacket and found her cell phone. She was sitting behind her desk; her hands were mostly hidden. She held steady as the gunman turned back to face her, but her fingers were finding the buttons. Speed dial 1, and her thumb closed over the speaker to muffle any sound from the other end of the call. _Pick up quickly, Greg,_ she begged him silently. She thought he was actually up on 3 West himself at the moment. She spoke up clearly, making sure her voice would carry.

"Okay, the President is on 3 West, like I said. Be careful with that gun. It's okay; you don't have to hurt anybody. I'll take you to him." She pulled a paper on her desk over to her with her free hand, as if she were studying it. The gunman was several feet away, too far to see what was written. "There's a checkpoint just outside of the elevator on 3 West on the way to the President, but I'm on the approved list. I'll tell them you're okay, and then it's just down the hall." That sounded as insane as he was, but amazingly, he believed her, yet more proof of his irrational state. "You probably need to put the gun in your pocket, though. Walking through the hospital and into that wing with it out in the open would get attention. You'll get through easier with it hidden."

He considered and then nodded, accepting that. "I'll have it, though. Don't forget."

"I'm not forgetting, believe me. I'll be _very_ aware of that right hand, even if I can't see it." Thereby hopefully passing along the relevant pocket. The Secret Service would nail him regardless of her warning, as tight as security was up there, but advance notice might help them set up to be better able to protect her. "Okay, I'm going to stand up from my desk now. Take it easy." She pulled her hand out of her pocket, leaving the cell phone on, then stood and walked around to the door of her office. "Come on. I'll take you to the President."

"Just remember what happens if you don't," he warned. The gun disappeared into the pocket of the light windbreaker he was wearing in spite of the temperature outside, but his hand obviously stayed on it as he turned to follow her. She couldn't believe she hadn't wondered about the jacket before. But no, like an idiot, she had walked straight into her office with him.

But would a shoot-out in the lobby have been any better?

Cuddy gulped and started walking. Across the lobby, and she was amazed at how nobody seemed to notice them. Even the employees didn't look twice, although she felt that her body language must be screaming with tension. She arrived at the elevator and pushed the button. "Hopefully it won't take the elevator too long, and we'll get right up to see him."

The door dinged, and Cuddy hesitated for a moment before entering. Somehow, the prospect of being enclosed in the small car with this maniac was even worse than being in her office with him. _Greg, please be listening to this,_ she thought, trying to draw reassurance from a mental image of the preparations up above. The gunman bumped her in the back with the gun, and she felt the weight of the metal even through his windbreaker and her professional business suit. "Move!" he demanded.

She entered the elevator, feet feeling shaky. "I'm moving. Take it easy." She punched the button.

"If the President isn't up there, I'll kill you," he said almost conversationally. "Give me the runaround, and I'll kill you."

She swallowed. _Never see your family again._ "No runaround. I promise, I'm taking you to the right area. He's there. You'll see the credentials desk just to the left when we get off the elevator."

He was silent then, waiting. The elevator stopped with a ding, and the door slid open. "Here we are," she announced. She stepped out of the elevator promptly, trying to gain a foot or two of buffer from him, and turned to the left, toward the desk, suddenly feeling a surge of hope as she saw House standing there along with the initial security.

The gunfire spoke sharply from the right, behind them, just as the gunman exited the elevator and turned. Cuddy heard his grunt as the first bullet hit his right wrist, a precise shot that disabled his hidden gun hand. She leaped into action, jumping away, moving toward House as fast as he was moving toward her. She didn't see the next few seconds, having reached her husband and buried herself in his chest, his arms coming tightly around her. House, however, did. The gunman staggered but then tried to bring his left hand over to the right pocket to retrieve his weapon, and the second shot to the upper chest dropped him. He windmilled for another step and then fell, and his head cracked sharply against the check-in desk on his way down.

The Secret Service closed in, swarming around him. Cuddy was shaking, and she felt the warm pressure of House's arms around her. "It's okay, Lisa," he reassured her, but his own voice was quivering. "It's okay."

"Damn it. Doctor?" someone called. House and Cuddy both turned attention to the unfolding scene behind her. The gunman had been rolled over by now, and the Secret Service was frisking him and had extracted the gun, but he had gone into a seizure. Blood was flowing not just from his wrist and the high chest wound, carefully missing the heart as intended, but heavily from the man's left temple.

House tightened his arm firmly around Cuddy, not approaching, but his eyes sized up the situation. "Might be an open skull fracture. He hit that desk hard on the way down."

"We needed to talk to him," the sniper grumbled, annoyed at this disruption of fate imposed upon his two perfect shots.

People seemed everywhere now. Cuddy took a few steps closer, looking at the gunman. He had stopped seizing and lay still. "He was _crazy_," she said with a shiver. "I mean certifiably _insane_."

Sam opened his eyes, bewildered. He must have lost time again; the last thing he remembered was still heading toward Princeton, even though he knew he'd be too late, and hearing the hourly news begin on the radio. Now, he was lying on a floor with people all around. Pain slammed through his body, his right hand on fire, his chest with a hot poker through it, and searing pain along the side of his head. He could feel the blood running down the side of his face, more blood running down his chest and over his arm. But Sam barely noticed those in the surge of elation at a much more obvious point.

There were no voices. For the first time in over a year, there were _no_ voices, not just lowered volume to a background hum but gone. Even the pain, while severe, was simple pain, not the hot barbed wire that was so familiar. Sam almost relished the purity of it. His body hurt so badly, but it just _hurt_. The ever-present chorus had been stilled. He'd take this trade-off any day and count it a bargain. He looked up at the ring of men kneeling over him, the closest with Sam's blood on his hands, and, farther off, one man and a beautiful woman standing directly in his line of sight. The woman was staring at him in horror, apparently appalled at the blood, and Sam smiled, trying to let her know how much better this was, that he was okay. "Thank you," he said with heartfelt sincerity to this group of people who had apparently been his salvation.

A voice said something in reply, but his hearing was scrambling now. He knew it was simply a human voice, though, the kind that all of them could hear. His weighted eyes were falling shut, and the pain in the side of his head was slowly expanding like a wave to cover him.

With the smile still on his lips, Sam let himself fall into the waiting, growing, blessedly _silent_ darkness.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Short chapter but significant one. Thanks for all the reviews. All balls are now in the air - three cases plus Cuddy plot. Round and round and round they go.

(H/C)

House pulled Cuddy's car into the garage and looked over at her with concern. She had been purely matter-of-fact throughout the aftermath on 3 West, giving a simple statement to the authorities. Everybody praised her quick thinking and handling of the situation, even though the Secret Service also stated, and the press release would emphasize, that there had never been any danger to the President. Which was true; there was no way for a gunman to make it clear down that hall. Cuddy's advance warning had helped minimize any collateral damage, though.

But throughout the questions, she never let go of House's hand, and he could feel the shiver fits, some visible and some not, that swept over her at intervals. The intervals weren't decreasing, either. He finally cut the debriefing short and simply left, taking her home.

Cuddy opened the car door and stepped out. "Can you pay the babysitter, Greg? I want to go see the girls."

"Sure, but they're probably asleep now. I prescribe a nice, long soak in the hot tub."

"Sounds wonderful, but I'm seeing the girls first." She walked on into the house and quickly to the nursery.

Abby and Rachel were both sound asleep, and Cuddy checked them over carefully. No nighttime fevers, breathing calm and peaceful, both covered but not too heavily covered for comfort. They slept the dreams of childhood innocence.

_Never see your family again._ She shivered at the memory of the words. She hadn't mentioned that to anybody in the questioning, had been unable to repeat the specific threat. She simply said the gunman produced his weapon and demanded to see the President. Nobody else knew the exact conversation that had taken place before she managed to call House.

He had been wrong. She was standing right here seeing her family, and everything was over. But she couldn't shake the memory of those eyes. He had been truly, psychotically irrational.

How many people were there like him out walking the streets, ticking time-bombs just waiting for the right circumstances to set them into action? People around them might not even realize. No one in the lobby had given them a second glance as she walked across it with a gun at her back. She herself had never suspected anything when he first spoke to her, had looked at him and thought only that something was a bit unusual, but the world was full of people a bit unusual. Then she had walked trustingly into her office with him. There had been no neon sign, no T-shirt with a clearly written warning, no obvious indication that this man was truly dangerous until he had pulled out the gun.

House entered the nursery, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her firmly. She leaned back full length against him, and he could feel her trembling. "The hot tub is filling up," he said.

"Good." She never took her eyes off the girls.

"You did great, Lisa. That was a smart idea to call me."

"I was hoping they could set up better that way." Her tone was absolutely even still, but he could feel the shivers. House was floundering, unsure what else to say. Dealing with emotions had never been his forte. He at least could deal medically with an obvious case of shock.

"Come on, Lisa. Let's take a bath and get warmed up."

She turned away, but her hand found his and clutched it again tightly for the short walk to the main bathroom. The hot tub was filling up, steaming gently, and it did look inviting. She had just kicked off her shoes when House's cell phone rang.

He pulled it out with a scowl, obviously debating on answering. "Answer it," she insisted. "Might be something on one of your patients."

"I'm not going back in tonight," he insisted.

"You can consult by phone, at least. Go ahead and answer it, Greg." She secretly was glad that she wouldn't be alone tonight, though. Her family right here, any time she wanted to look at them. The gunman had been wrong.

House reluctantly hit the button. "House."

It was Kutner. "House, thought you'd want to know. The gunman died on the OR table. They thought he was stable, but he started seizing again, and then he just shut down. The initial stat CT checking for intracranial pressure was really interesting, though. He had another skull fracture, not just the new one. The other one wasn't that old, either, and it hadn't healed up right. There was some brain damage along that side, too. They'll get a better picture at autopsy, but the poor guy would have had severe headaches, and it also could explain personality changes. Secret Service has already started to run his background; no previous violence, no nothing. He was a janitor."

House shook his head. "I'll bet it was a Worker's Comp case. Medicine bows once again to the almighty dollar; the most important thing in any Comp case is to get them back on the job as soon as possible. He wasn't on any meds?"

"They didn't find any on him. They're digging more into background, of course. How's Cuddy?"

Standing right there watching him at the moment. "She's shaken up but hopefully okay." She didn't like that description, even though it was the least possible summary House could have given. "We're about to get in the hot tub, and you aren't invited even electronically, so get back to work."

"See you tomorrow, House." Kutner hung up.

"_Anybody_ would be a little shaken up, Greg," Cuddy said with an edge of defensive sharpness in her tone as he returned the phone to his pocket.

He sighed. "Yes, they would. It wasn't a condemnation. Give yourself permission to be part of anybody, Lisa." He switched off the water. "Come on, let's get in."

He started undressing, and she followed suit. "Which one of them was that?"

"Kutner. The gunman died during surgery. Kutner also said CT showed an older but pretty recent skull fracture, badly healed. That could explain his behavior. He apparently doesn't have any prior record, nothing that would suggest this."

Cuddy shivered again. "He _thanked _us at the end." His eyes had looked different then from earlier, too. Of course, nobody else had seen them earlier like she had. Somehow, the idea that perfectly normal people could be knocked into unstable assassins because of an injury was even more frightening. One slip, one fall, one blow to the head, and not only that person's life but dozens of others could be changed forever.

House stepped up to hug her. "Let's get in, Lisa."

The hot water was a warm embrace, thawing some of the ice in her heart. She leaned back into it, closing her eyes. "Feel good?" House asked. He carefully didn't ask if she felt better, since she was getting snappish at any outright suggestion that she was rattled in the first place.

"It feels _wonderful_." She let her shoulders sink until only her head was above water. "I'm sure it feels great on your leg, too."

He hadn't even thought of his leg for several hours. Now that she had conveniently reminded him, it was screaming. "Yes, it does." He hesitated, but there was no way to suggest this one without using the actual words. "Lisa, why don't you take one of my sleeping pills tonight?"

She erupted back up from the water like a fish fighting the line. "There's no need, Greg. It was a tough evening, yes, but it's over. Besides, the girls will probably need attention at least once."

"I'll take them tonight."

"And _you_ need rest, too. You've got a tough work week ahead."

"I just didn't want you to . . ." He trailed off.

"Afraid I'd have nightmares? That's _your _issue, not one of mine." He flinched at the sharpness of her tone, and she stared, startled at herself. "Greg, I didn't mean it like . . . I'm sorry."

He recognized the dodge but accepted it anyway, returning her kiss with interest. If she wouldn't accept any medicinal help tonight, there were other ways to assist with inducing sound sleep, after all. They sank together into the waters and into each other, and by the time they got to bed a little later, Cuddy fell quickly into rest.

(H/C)

House woke up at 5:25 with a jolt. He had stayed awake much of the night watching her and listening for the girls, as his first move after she was sound asleep was to turn off the monitor in the bedroom as well as her alarm clock. Cuddy had slept fairly deeply, more deeply than her usual, but she seemed Velcroed to him, and when he did get up to check the girls, she was restless when he got back until he climbed under her arm again. At that point, it had tightened up almost painfully around him, even in her sleep, as if she were refusing to let him go. Any time he shifted, she followed him. She didn't seem to be having outright nightmares, though. Finally, his own worn-out body dragged him down into sleep about 3:00, though he firmly instructed himself that he wouldn't have any bad dreams tonight, either. He didn't want to disturb her.

But now it was 5:25, and she was gone, her snuggling against his side replaced by Belle. He carefully pulled away from the cat and sat up. "Lisa?" No response. He lurched to his feet and gave the leg a moment to wake up. It hadn't had his final meds last night and was ticked off and letting him know it in no uncertain terms. Sooner than it would have liked, he demanded action and hobbled toward the bedroom door. The girls were still sound asleep in the nursery.

Cuddy was in the living room doing her morning yoga, which had a very non-yoga-like briskness and snap on it this morning. She looked up as he limped into the room. "You switched off the alarm clock, Greg. I woke up eight minutes late."

"How are you . . ."

She cut the question off. "I haven't got time to talk right now; I'm eight minutes late, like I said. You could help with the girls and breakfast. We can't be late to the hospital this morning; there's too much going on with your cases."

"Are you sure . . ."

She hesitated in her routine and glared at him. "You weren't actually going to suggest skipping today, were you?" His expression was enough of an answer. "There's absolutely no reason to. I have a full schedule myself today, board meeting, more paperwork, a conference, and there's no question where I'm going to be. What _you_ are going to do today is to get cracking on this case. Can you imagine the prestige boost to the hospital when you cure the President? You need to be working on him and on Mark, too, since you insist on hanging onto that one. But you _don't_ need to be slacking off hanging around me, and there's no need to. I'm perfectly fine." She glanced at her watch. "Except that I've lost another two minutes now. Get busy, Greg." She resumed the yoga double time as if eager to make up her ten minutes.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, House turned and limped into the kitchen to start the coffee.


	13. Chapter 13

Foreman entered the ICU Wednesday morning, and Jensen watched him as he flipped through Mark's chart, checking the notes since he had finally quit about 11:30 the previous night and gone home for some sleep. Foreman had explained last night about the events down on 3 West and that House had taken Cuddy on home, and the attempted attack was, of course, on TV already as well. Jensen fully understood House dropping his cases and going on home last night, but what had fascinated him was watching Foreman tell it.

Foreman had obviously made progress of his own since last fall. He had been in mandated therapy now for over six months, but Jensen knew that mandated therapy only works if the participant decides on his own, not under duress, that it is worthwhile. Clearly, Foreman had taken that step. He seemed steadier to Jensen, more observant of other people, willing to cut them more slack, and there had been legitimate concern in his voice last night when he talked about House and Cuddy. There was also a new respect in his manner around House himself when Jensen had seen them together yesterday, even though he was trying to hide it. Unlike earlier, when he had just respected House professionally, he now had respect for him as a person, too. House, on his part, was slightly less on guard around Foreman than he had been. Yes, Foreman still had plenty of work to do, still had some issues with impulse control and anger at times - Jensen recognized them from personal experience. But he had obviously been making progress, and the psychiatrist hoped he was proud of that. He had reason to be.

"I see you're running a low-grade fever this morning," Foreman said, looking up from the chart to Mark.

"He's feeling worse in general, too," Jensen threw in, and Mark rolled his eyes.

"I'm right here, Michael. He was talking to me."

"Give him honest answers, then, and I won't have to," Jensen replied.

Foreman ignored that exchange, continuing to look through the chart. "Your white count is normal, though."

"Doesn't that prove I don't have an infection?" Mark asked.

"Actually, no. Just proves that you don't have one of the routine, usual infections. One of the theories for what's wrong with your heart is medication reaction, but the Norvasc should be wearing off, so you'd progressively be getting better. The fact that you're having systemic symptoms that are getting worse tells us this is more likely caused by an atypical infection. We'll keep running tests." Foreman stepped over to the side of the bed. "I'm going to do something very briefly here. I want to turn off the pacemaker and see how your heart reacts on the monitors. Only for a few seconds." Mark tensed up, which fact told Foreman more than his words had so far. For all the front, Mark was truly worried about his health now. Jensen put one hand on his brother's arm, almost as if ready to hold him there if anything tried to pull him away. Foreman turned the pacemaker off.

Even the non medically trained observers saw the change in the tracing as several elements shifted, some slightly, some more so. The heart rate dropped sharply. Foreman turned the pacemaker back on, and things leveled out again. He wrote a paragraph in the chart and looked back up at Mark. "This is not just a medication reaction. It's a systemic process."

"Will I always have to have a pacemaker?" Mark asked, his voice softer now.

"Hopefully not. Once we find and treat the underlying cause, the heart might well straighten itself out. If it doesn't, there are lots of people wearing pacemakers in the world, and it's not that hard with a few lifestyle modifications. But first we need to identify and treat the infection. The pacemaker is only treating a symptom, not the cause. We've got several cultures growing, and hopefully they'll tell us something. Taub is in the lab again checking them. There's also the issue of the seizure you had yesterday. That was probably a result of the heart block, but I would like to get another EEG now that you're awake just to check again for any signs of a seizure disorder."

"Get one on both of them," House said, entering the ICU room. All heads turned toward him. Jensen couldn't help switching into analytical mode. House looked tired and also worried, but he was here again, back on Mark's case, and the psychiatrist couldn't help the surge of relief he felt alongside the concern for his own patient. Foreman might be a good doctor and improving regarding interference from his own issues, but there was no one else equivalent to House.

Foreman also took a moment to size up his boss visually before diving into the medical. He didn't say anything about House's obvious tiredness in front of the patient, though. "Do an EEG on _both_ of them?" He looked back at the brothers, who were looking identically confused. "What's wrong with the other one?"

"Nothing," House responded. "That's why we need to do an EEG on him, too." He had lost all of them, Foreman included. House sighed. "Look, Foreman, what we have here is in many ways a baseline copy of the patient before he got sick. Call them before and after if you like. Looking at both sides on a few tests could help us. With EEG, it's been proven that there is extreme similarity in brain waves between identical twins. Any difference at all is close to what might be seen on two EEGs at different times on the same healthy person. So EEGs on both of them _should_ look very much alike. Thus, any acute differences with Mark would stand out that much more in comparison. We could basically rule out seizure disorder just by the double EEG."

Foreman looked impressed, and Jensen and Mark both looked fascinated. House jumped on to other issues, picking up Mark's chart and looking quickly through the last few pages. He looked back up, noted the fever of 101.1 on the monitors now, then asked Jensen, "How's he feeling this morning?"

"Progressively worse," Jensen answered. "I can't tell you exactly how, though."

House switched his attention to Mark. "Ready to admit you aren't invincible yet? Let me see if I can prompt your memory. General myalgias - that means aches and pains. For how long?"

Mark sighed. "Like I said, I twisted my ankle running a few weeks ago. It was hurting for a while, I was walking differently, and that put a strain on everything else."

"Which actually _could_ have misled you into not recognizing other symptoms as independent symptoms, to give you the benefit of the doubt. Did the aches get better as your ankle did?"

"No," Mark admitted grudgingly.

"What _specifically_ is hurting?" House asked.

"Just . . . everything in general."

"Okay. What about the low-grade fever? You didn't have one yesterday, do now. Have you had fevers intermittently lately?"

"No," Mark replied, and Jensen shook his head.

"That's not right, Mark."

House grinned. "This could get fun. Like being hooked up to a lie detector, isn't it? Must be inconvenient at times."

"It is," Mark replied. "I don't _know_ that I've had a fever."

"But you think you might have and just didn't check it?" House suggested.

"It never lasted. If it ever existed at all. I would have taken my temperature if I kept feeling warm, but I didn't. And it _has_ been hot lately."

"Intermittent fevers, check." House wrote a note in the chart. "Next one, slight difficulty concentrating."

Mark straightened up in denial. "What gives you that idea?"

"Chess yesterday. You were having slight trouble focusing on the game."

"There was a good reason for that," Mark pointed out. "You wouldn't let me think."

"Because I was trying to test your concentration. It seemed slightly off."

Mark shook his head. "No." House looked at Jensen.

The psychiatrist considered. "Not that I've noticed, but we don't live that close to each other. Talking on the phone, visiting every couple of weekends. The last time I played chess with him, he beat me easily. Of course, I wasn't trying to drive him nuts during the game, either. I know he hasn't been feeling well, but I hadn't noticed anything mentally."

House jotted down another note. "I could be wrong on that, since I've never played chess with you before yesterday to get a baseline game while pestering you. But I still think that should have been easier. So we'll call it possible slight concentration difficulties. Last one for now, fatigue."

A moment, and then Mark nodded reluctantly. "It has been hot, though."

"Yes, I know. And you'd twisted your ankle. I can see where both of those would be handy subconscious excuses if you didn't want to admit you weren't feeling well." House handed the chart back to Foreman. "Foreman, get EEGs times two and keep testing for all the non-standard infections you can think of. Mark, is there anything else you aren't telling us?"

"No," Mark replied definitely.

House looked at Jensen. Jensen sighed. "He believes that, anyway. I'm not sure. I can't tell specifics, like I said, just general impressions. I wish I could give you an exact list of medical symptoms, but it doesn't work that way.."

"So we keep testing him. And occasionally you. I take it you don't mind being our control group?"

"Not at all. Do anything you want if you think it might help."

"Great. I'll be around. Got to go check on our fearless leader." House turned to leave, and Jensen got up from the bedside chair and followed him, catching up a few strides outside the glass door to the room. House heard the pursuing footsteps and turned around.

Jensen gave a quick look around them, but the ICU was bustling in the privacy of extreme activity. "How is Dr. Cuddy?" the psychiatrist asked, very softly.

House sighed. "Depends on who you ask, me or her."

"I'm asking you."

"She was as shaken up last night as I have ever seen her. Then this morning, she's totally shut down, business as usual, in control. She won't even admit that yesterday was frightening."

Jensen shook his head. "Control freaks react like that sometimes."

"Tell me about it. Hopefully she won't carry this too far."

"Just keep being there for her, and she'll turn to you eventually and talk about it." That was being blatantly optimistic, and House realized it, as his skeptical look showed. "Did you get any sleep last night?" Jensen asked.

"Not much. I was watching her - and dealing with the girls, too, but mainly watching her. But you don't look like you got much, either."

"Touche." They probably did make a matched set in the baggy eyes department, Jensen had to admit. "Your ICU visitor's chair isn't quite 5 star - and I was watching Mark. His wife should be in tonight, so I can switch off with her then and do shifts. I'll get a hotel room for us nearby."

"You talked him into staying in our non-5-star lodgings here, I take it?"

Jensen grinned. "He didn't have much choice. Yes, I talked to him, but I also sabotaged him first. I talked to everybody else he would want to before he woke up. He's already tried to convince the whole family he's fine and I'm overreacting, and not one of them is buying it. If he left, he'd have several worried babysitters immediately glued to him just in case he collapsed again."

House was impressed. "Nice! I would have thought you'd go for the talking to him approach."

"There's a time to talk to people, and there's a time to use stronger measures and undercut them."

"Spoken like a true shrink," House said approvingly. "Hope he doesn't hold that against you forever though."

"Why should he?" Jensen asked. "We're far too close as friends at this point to let a disagreement permanently get in the way. He's annoyed with me, but it will pass."

House was definitely improving himself in therapy, but he still had trouble with the concept of people not keeping perpetual score and weighing the relationship as worthwhile or not according to the changing balance. Too many of them had treated him like that through the years. He dodged, looking at his watch. "I'd better get going. Got to make sure the President is still alive. Need to check on Sandra, too."

"Don't push yourself too far, Dr. House," Jensen said. "But thank you for keeping Mark's case."

House had turned away and already taken two steps, but he turned back to Jensen at that. "You're welcome," he replied pleasantly. A nurse, walking past him just then, jumped and dropped the form she was carrying. House stepped over it and limped on out of the ICU.

(H/C)

Cuddy entered her office and sat down at the desk.

_There_ was where he had been standing. Right in front of her, about halfway between the desk and the door, when he had pulled out that gun. She remembered how the barrel seemed to expand as she had looked down it as it had pointed straight at her.

Taking a firm grip on herself, she looked at the picture on the wall. Her family, right there. She could look at them any time she wanted. He had been wrong. Finally, she started going through her messages and lining out her agenda for the day. She made a mental note to keep an eye on House, too, and make sure that he wasn't short changing the President but was being diligent on all cases. If he insisted on doing all of them, she would have to see that his work on them remained equal and up to his usual standards.

And if regular checks on him also gave her an opportunity to see him, that was just a small side benefit. It certainly wasn't her main objective.

The board meeting was this afternoon. She considered for a moment the last few board meetings, which had been annoyingly inefficient, then opened up her email.

_To: All Board Members _

_From: Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House, Dean of Medicine, Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital _

_Re: Today's board meeting and all subsequent _

_In the interests of working more efficiently and getting more accomplished in our meetings, we are going to be initiating a 2-minute limit on comments. Each person may speak once for up to two minutes on each issue, and after everybody has had their turn, if they wish it, we will proceed to vote. I am providing advance notice of this so that each of us may better prepare and organize what we wish to say on each issue on the agenda. Arriving at the meeting with our opinions organized and worked out in advance will lead to more efficient meetings, faster votes, and a more productive board. Please take time before today's meeting, therefore, to consider what you want to say on each issue and how best to say it, and arrive already having done your homework and ready for discussion. _

Cuddy revised a few words, read the email over, nodded in satisfaction at the final draft, and sent it. Hopefully that would help combat the annoyingly circular discussions the board often got into, which were simply a waste of valuable time. Anybody who couldn't summarize his opinion and concerns in two minutes per issue hadn't considered them thoroughly enough beforehand_. _

She stood up. Time to go check on House and make sure that he was working. She started toward her office door, then paused, turned, and snapped a picture of the family picture with her cell phone. There. She could look at them anytime at all throughout the day, no matter where she was.

Briskly, she walked on out of the office.


	14. Chapter 14

The office was empty when Cuddy entered, as was the adjacent conference room. That hopefully meant that House was with a patient, but she still needed to verify that herself. She could call him on the cell phone, of course, but he could say anything there. No, she'd better track him down in person. With a quick mental calculation of how much time a House hunt could cost her, she resigned herself and turned to leave, then hesitated, her eye caught by a radiology folder on the conference room table with a note attached.

_House, Autopsy being done this morning, so no report yet. Initial CT here. _

It was in Taub's handwriting. She opened the folder and pulled out the CT on Sam Higgins, the attempted assassin from yesterday. The Secret Service had removed his wallet and commented on his ID before the gurney sped him off for treatment.

Cuddy shook her head in annoyance. Why exactly was House spending his time chasing details on Sam Higgins? It was _over_. Finished, done with, case closed, and this was _not_ one of the cases he should be focusing on. She looked at the whiteboard just to verify that no further columns had appeared. No, the three columns remained, with Mark in the lead for length of symptom list.

She felt him coming along the hall even before she heard the awkward rhythm of his gait, and she turned as he entered the conference room, unable to suppress the surge of pure relief at seeing him upright and healthy, at just being able to _look_ at him.

_You'll never see your family again._

"Hi, Lisa," he said, giving her a smile. "What brings you to Diagnostics?"

She snapped her thoughts back to the task at hand. "I was just making sure that you were working." His expression changed quickly, a flash of resentment and hurt in his eyes, immediately followed by the reminder that she had had a tough day yesterday and he should cut her some slack. The thought was so obvious that he might as well have had it written in a bubble over his head. It annoyed her. Yesterday was _over_.

Speaking of which . . . "What are you doing with the CT - and the autopsy later - on Sam Higgins?"

He looked at the radiology envelope on the table. "I just wanted to look over that old injury. Kutner thought last night it might help explain his behavior." For House, defining something medically was his preferred way of processing it; for him, knowing a medical explanation would be reassuring, would help dispel some of his emotions from last night. While Cuddy still could have been killed - his heart rate kicked up in automatic reaction - for him, the thought of a few people with post TBI psychosis in the world was less frightening than the thought of people who were simply cold-blooded assassins.

Cuddy shook her head. "Greg, it is _over_. You're just wasting time, and you haven't got any to waste. Drop it and get to work on what you _should_ be working on."

Her tone was sharp, and House stared at her. _She's shaken up_, he reminded himself. _Be patient with her. Easy._

Cuddy turned back to look at the whiteboard. "I noticed that Mark's symptom list is longer than the President's."

Patience, having made a brief visit, packed its bags and headed for the door. "Are you _serious_? Are we into equal opportunity symptoms now? Too bad the patients themselves didn't get that memo."

"You don't need to be short-changing the President. _You _are the one who insisted on keeping Mark's case, but I'm only going to allow it if you can do your job with all of them."

He stared. "I'm _not _short-changing the President. I just went to see Mark first this morning, then updated his list. Just got back from the President now."

"And why did you go see Mark first?"

"Because he's the more critical patient! Do the letters ICU give you a clue?"

Cuddy closed the gap. "Listen, Greg, you already quit early last night on the President's case . . ."

"Quit _early?_ Lisa, I needed to take you home. That gunman . . ."

Her entire body clenched up, refusing to go there. "I was _fine_. He threatened me, I walked him straight into the security nest, and they dealt with him. End of story. But this is the most important case this hospital has at the moment, the most important one we've had all year, and I need you in top form on it. From now on, you check on the President _first_."

Anger and concern were having a full-out wrestling match in his expression. "Mark is more critical right now, but I _am_ juggling both of them."

"There's also the team. You said yesterday you split them up, Kutner on the President, Foreman and Taub on Mark unless Sandra's baby is born. Why did you put Taub on Mark's case? That overbalances it to his side."

"Because he's the more critical patient. Get it? He is in _worse_ shape right now."

"And it's up to you to make sure the President stays in better shape. We can't blow this case, Greg. I want an easy course for him and a fast diagnosis, understood?"

House couldn't believe they were even having this conversation. He was unable to keep the sharp sarcasm out of his tone. "Well unfortunately, I can't just schedule a cure. Diagnosis at 3:35 and write it on the day's agenda. You _know_ it doesn't work that way."

Her cell phone rang right then, interrupting a bilateral glare. After a moment, she pulled it out and checked. White House press spokesman. She answered, her voice smooth, professional, in control. "Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House." House, even through the irritation, noted that she had used her full name, something she didn't usually take the time for in routine daily activities. "Yes, of course. Not a problem. That works with my schedule. I'll see you in an hour in the auditorium, and I'll give a statement." She hit off.

"Give a statement?" House asked.

"The President's spokesman wants me to give a brief statement at a news conference in an hour. Just the facts from last night. He said making a statement up front and showing them it really wasn't a big deal will help keep the press from trying to hound me for my version. I don't have time to be dealing with them distracting me; better to get it all over with in one statement."

His expression softened. "Do you want me to be there for you, Lisa?"

She heard the clear concern, and her entire being rebelled, unable to accept it. "No, I want you to _do your job_. PR is part of my job, and it sure isn't part of yours. So stop wasting time getting distracted with other things and solve the President's case. And switch Taub over to that one. Get busy." She turned briskly and marched out of the conference room, leaving him standing stunned with hurt blue eyes in the middle of the floor looking after her.


	15. Chapter 15

House sat at the conference table, his thoughts a cyclone of hurt, anger, and concern.

She didn't need him at the news conference to support her. That had been the hardest blow by far out of everything she had just said to him. He knew she was rattled, knew she was trying to control everything to compensate, but still . . .

She didn't _need_ him there.

It was only six months since Patrick Chandler had briefly turned their lives upside down, and House still remembered vividly how much he had needed her there. Particularly with the questions, with the media, and above all in court. At the times when he had to talk about it, no deflection possible but was forced to give a factual account of events under questioning regarding both Patrick's actions and John's, Cuddy had been his lifeline. Only her ring and her presence out in the seats had kept him from total meltdown on the stand into a flashback during his cross-examination. Talking about events to the world without her there for support would have been impossible. It wasn't even a question of whether he felt he should be able to do it alone. The whole concept of doing it without her was impossible, beyond any feeling or control on his part.

House had also, of course, been preparing for the full trial with Jensen in sessions, with the focus more on that as they approached the date. Patrick's trial started in about a month, the week after the 4th of July holiday. It would be better in some ways, of course; no surreptitious carpet glue. House had had that point firmly pressed home by Jensen, and at any illegally underhanded tactics, he would immediately protest to the judge this time. Given the events of the hearing, the judge, even if a different one, would be that much more aware and determined to prevent a recurrence. But the questions would be much worse, more extensive, a verbal rather than olfactory battle. The prosecutor had warned them that House might well be on the stand for more than one day, even. A full trial was always far more extensive than an evidentiary hearing, and limited to a standard verbal attack on his testimony, the defense would hit that much harder and longer with the questions, trying to batter down his walls and break him.

One of Jensen's main points that he had kept hammering in through the intervening months, and in fact the main topic of last week's session where the psychiatrist had asked House to see Mark at the end of it, was that House would have Cuddy and his support system right there in the courtroom. He wouldn't have to face the questions alone. House knew that he _couldn't_ face testimony like that alone.

But she didn't need him like that.

He had always known, of course, in the back of his mind that he needed Cuddy more than she needed him, but to have her flat-out state that herself, even if indirectly, hurt. It hurt like a knife to the chest that was not pulled out, sharp on impact and then remaining there, the stabbing a constant, not even the ebb and flow of waves that mere physical pain often took.

He couldn't dismiss that as part of her being shaken up from last night, because for himself, past and future, the need for her when he faced the world to talk about his ordeal wasn't even up for debate.

No, she just didn't need him as much as he needed her. He would have no opportunity to try to repay her in some small fraction in kind for the immeasurable support she had given him - and that he would need from her again as soon as next month - in court.

Then there was the annoyance. She would only _allow_ him to keep Mark's case if he worked to her satisfaction on all? She had _no_ say in him keeping Mark's case. They would have to drag him physically out of the hospital to get him to stay away from that ICU room, and even then, he would work on the puzzle from outside. Jensen needed him, and Jensen, unlike Cuddy, was perfectly willing to accept that fact and even grateful for House's contribution. Jensen would let House be there in his crisis, as he had so often been there for House, and while the medical mystery itself was intriguing, House also was glad to give some actual return for once to the psychiatrist, to make it a 2-way street, even if one with many more lanes in one direction than the other.

No way in hell was he giving up Mark's case, and Cuddy had absolutely no vote in that.

But he _was _working the President's case, too, and it was even getting more interesting today, as well. A large part of the sting of her checking up on his work was the knowledge that her accusations were entirely unjustified. He was doing his best at the moment, and she had no cause to treat him like a school boy who needed a parent standing over his shoulder constantly to hold him to task.

And equal symptom length? That was absurd.

His work was _his_, and he did it his way and did it well, and she ought to trust him on that by now.

A surge of anger suddenly carried House to his feet. He went to the whiteboard and erased the President's column, then rewrote all the symptoms, including a couple of new ones from this morning. Only this time, House stretched the letters, writing in a larger font, making absolutely sure that that column matched the length of Mark's to the centimeter. He then, underneath the heading of Wilson, Jr., wrote WAITING in letters about a foot tall, making that column line up with the others.

There. He capped the marker with a firm snap. If she wanted equal length of the columns, she had it. He wasn't going to let her micromanage his cases and disrupt his work. He was far better at his job than she was, and he knew it. If she had forgotten that in stress, he'd just have to remind her.

He sat back down with a sigh, the energy of anger falling back into a low thrum underneath his thoughts. He wished he could talk to Jensen, but Jensen was dealing with Mark, and Mark took priority, as he should. Family was important.

Family. He wished _she_ would talk to Jensen, but Cuddy herself would resent that one. He wished she would talk to somebody, even if not him.

He looked at his watch. He'd been spinning his wheels here for a full hour; the press conference should be starting. He thought for a moment about turning on the TV, seeing if a local station was broadcasting it, but he couldn't stand the idea. It would be too painful, sitting here watching her on TV just like any anonymous member of society instead of being there in person to support her. But she didn't need him there for her.

House instead sat there staring at the whiteboard, trying to focus on work, but his thoughts kept gravitating to the auditorium below. Silently, even if she wouldn't know, even if she didn't need it from him, he wished her luck.

(H/C)

Cuddy stepped up to the podium. The White House press spokesman had given his statement first, taking several questions, and now it was her turn. The room was packed, the media looking up at her expectantly. She wished House were there, but he needed to be working. As she had told him, this was part of her job, and it wasn't part of his.

She placed her cell phone on the podium and called up the picture of the family. With it right there, and with her eyes finding it as an anchor often, she gave a brief, matter-of-fact report of last night. There had never been any danger to the President. The man had not hurt her and had only wanted to be taken there. She had walked him into security, and the Secret Service had done their job. She praised the efficiency of the guards, also hoping that this might send a subliminal message to any other crazy assassins out there wondering if PPTH was an easy target location for a shot at the commander in chief.

She was so downplaying and in control that there were few questions, and those she answered briefly. The White House spokesman thanked her again, and Cuddy walked out of the auditorium through the lower door, then leaned against the wall in privacy, trembling.

Get a grip on yourself, Lisa, she accosted. It's over.

And the man hadn't hurt her. Everything she had said in there was true.

She pulled out her cell phone for another look at her family, then started for her office, only to change course abruptly along the way. First, she had better go check on House again and make sure he was working.


	16. Chapter 16

Kutner entered the conference room to find House sitting there staring into space. Not his differential expression, either. "House?" Kutner called softly.

No response, and Kutner walked around in front of him for a repetition. House nearly jumped off the chair. "Kutner, SAY something before you sneak up behind somebody," he snapped.

"I did. And technically, that was sneaking up in front of you." Kutner studied his boss. "You okay?"

"Great," House replied with a "drop it" edge on his voice. Kutner got the message, loud and clear.

"The President is set up for an endoscopy in an hour. Ulcers could explain all of his GI symptoms lately and lack of appetite, and if there ever was a job designed to give you some, that one is it."

House nodded. "If it weren't for one thing, I'd be sure this was just a case of Presidential ulcers, write for some Presidential GI meds, and send him on his political way."

Kutner sighed. "Yeah. The feet. They're actually dusky this morning on the toes, and sensation is progressively getting worse. Still good pulses, though." He looked toward the whiteboard, then did a double take. "What happened to the whiteboard?"

"It was suggested," said House, heavy on the sarcasm, "that we should have equal length of the columns for each of the three cases."

Kutner stared at him. "You're kidding."

"I wish."

Kutner looked back at the whiteboard, then was unable to suppress the grin, which expanded into a laugh. "Well, you gave her what she wanted."

"Doubt she'll see it that way, but yes, I did." House turned around as Foreman and Taub both entered the conference room, each with his hands full.

"Brief autopsy highlights on Sam Higgins," Taub said, smacking down a piece of paper in front of House. "The official formal report takes a while longer, of course, but I talked to the doc personally."

House read it, then nodded. "That sure explains that one. Too bad nobody thought of trying to diagnose him months ago. Did the idiot doctors ever hear of followup?" He looked over at Foreman. "What have you got?"

"Double EEGs on the Jensen brothers," Foreman replied. He put them down side by side, and everybody pressed in for a look.

"Wow," said Kutner. "That's cool."

"You'd swear that was the same person," Taub stated.

"The same person without a seizure disorder," House agreed. "So, we strike that off the list for Mark." Everybody looked at the list in question, and Taub and Foreman registered their first sighting of the equal opportunity, non discriminatory whiteboard.

"What happened to . . ." Taub started, then trailed off. Foreman didn't bother asking.

"More importantly, what's happening with the other tests on Mark?" House demanded.

"Nothing so far. Negative for Lyme, negative for the other top candidates for atypical infection that can have cardiac presentation. We're gradually working down the list."

"Damn." Lyme had been House's leading choice so far, though there were literally dozens of possibilities. Mark didn't have the typical bull's-eye rash, but plenty of patients never developed it.

Kutner was still comparing the two EEGs. "Really, this is amazing similarity. I'd never seen comparative tests on identical twins before."

Right then, Cuddy walked into the conference room. Her first response was a surge of relief at seeing House. She was so caught up looking at him that it took a few seconds for Kutner's remark to register.

House had turned to face her, looking both defiant and uneasy, bracing for the whiteboard whitewater ahead. However, the entrance into that rapid was delayed by another.

"Comparative tests on identical twins?" Cuddy asked.

"Right," Kutner explained, eagerly jumping in. "House got EEGs on both of the Jensen brothers. Both totally normal, but they're so close. Look at the individual brain waves; this is neat."

Cuddy whirled back to face House. "You aren't supposed to be wasting time on things that are just _neat_. Testing healthy people tells you nothing; you spend enough time testing your patients without adding more."

"There was a valid medical point to it," House insisted, hackles rising. "We were ruling out seizure disorder on Mark, and I was using his brother as a baseline sample. It wasn't just curiosity."

Cuddy sighed and turned to face the whiteboard. Her jaw dropped. Kutner cringed, and Taub and Foreman retreated a token half step from the fray. House held steady, but he was beginning to wonder now if that had been such a bright idea as a way to make his point after all.

Cuddy spun around and nailed her husband with a glare. "What the _hell_ is that?"

"It's a list of symptoms," House stated. "A completely equal list of symptoms. You want equal lists on everybody; you got it. We aim to please."

Foreman couldn't help reacting to that one, staring at Cuddy as the source for House's actions was identified. "She wanted _equal lists_?" He'd thought it was just something House had done on his own while thinking, standard House inexplicability.

Cuddy jerked her head sharply toward House's office. "Dr. House, I want to speak to you privately. Now!"

House hauled himself up from his chair with deliberately leisurely motions and slowly limped after her into the office. Cuddy pulled the blinds immediately.

The other three stood in the conference room staring after them. "Twenty bucks on House," Taub offered suddenly.

Kutner shook his head. "I'm not betting against him, but equal symptom length? Really?"

"She needs help," Foreman stated. "But I'm not betting against House either."

They stood with ears tuned in, waiting for the explosion.

(H/C)

Cuddy fired the first shot almost immediately after pulling the blinds. "What the hell was that for? You _know_ that's not what I meant."

"You thought the President was getting short changed on the whiteboard," House insisted, but worry was battling the anger inside. Normally he enjoyed watching her riled up; it gave her an extra flash and spark that were hot. Now, though, there was a brittle edge on her that took all exhilaration out of it. Too late, he wished he hadn't indulged that fit of pique earlier. There was no joy at all in winding her up like this, only anxiety at the difference in her.

Cuddy wasn't giving an inch. Unlike House, she had the internal analysis function completely shut off at the moment, unable to truly examine her actions. "And how much time did you waste writing that?"

"Didn't time myself," House replied. He sat down at his desk. "Okay, maybe I shouldn't have done that but . . ."

"Damn right you shouldn't have done it. Greg, I need you _working_ on this case. Not wasting time acting like an 8-year-old. _Work_, remember? That's your job, and you should be down there with the President doing it."

Speaking of things that were and weren't his job . . . "How did the press conference go?" House asked. She seemed even more tense than earlier. Maybe that had reminded her more, brought last night home to her.

"It was fine," she replied, purely professional. "I made a statement, took questions, no big deal. It's part of my job, like I said."

He flinched. No, she hadn't needed him. "You'll still take time off from your job next month for the trial, won't you?" he asked suddenly, unable to stop himself, though he wished he could lasso the words a half second later and pull them back. That sounded truly pathetic.

She was even more annoyed and impatient at that question. "Yes, I will, but that's a month from now, Greg. What does next month have to do with the President's case at the moment?"

"Nothing," he said. He picked up his thinking ball, spinning it in his fingers, not throwing it.

"So stop getting distracted right now on other things and solve this case!" she demanded. "You should be doing your job."

House snapped, coming to his feet. "I AM doing my job. I've been doing my best on every one of these cases, _including _the President. The ONLY problem with my work this morning has been YOU."

Cuddy shook her head. "Somebody has to keep an eye on you and make sure you keep working."

"Like hell they do. You've never tried to micromanage my cases this much before, even back before we got together. I realize last night shook you up, but . . ."

"This has NOTHING to do with last night," she bristled. "You've given this hospital a harder time than any other doctor for years, and now that we have the most important case we've ever had, somebody needs to keep tabs on you."

"So of course, you elected yourself to the position." House paced a quick circle. "There is _no_ reason I need a professional babysitter. I'm a better doctor than any ten others in this hospital, and that _includes_ you. Lisa, I can't work like this, with you breathing down my neck every step. If anything is delaying diagnosis on the President, it's you."

Cuddy glared at him. "If you're unable to run Mark's case and the President's, then you'll have to drop Mark's. _That's_ what's blocking you. I'm just being the voice of reason and responsibility."

House stopped in front of her and pulled himself up to his full height. "There is no way in hell I'm giving up Mark's case. If I drop anything, it will be the President's."

"No, it won't. I'm your boss, Greg, and I'm demanding that you focus just on the President. The whole team, everything moved to that one. Enough of this divide and conquer nonsense."

"No," House replied, a rock-solid refusal. "I'll work them equally, which I _was_ doing already without a drill sergeant following me around . But you can't make me give up Mark's case."

"I'm giving you an order, Dr. House, as your supervisor."

Icy blue eyes met blue gray. "No," he repeated. "Which leaves you with two choices, Dr. Cuddy. You can either fire me, in which case guess what, I won't be on the President's case, although I'll still keep working from the outside on Mark's. Or you can let me do my job like I do it best and trust me on it. So either fire me right now or back off."

Cuddy stared, horrified. If she fired House, she wouldn't see him all day. Couldn't look in on him, even briefly. Wouldn't know he was okay. And, of course, the hospital would lose his services, too.

"Clock's ticking," House pushed.

Cuddy's frozen body came back to life. "Keep them both then. And your stupid whiteboard, if you just want to prove how immature you are. But I _will_ keep watching you from a distance to make sure you're working." She spun on her heel and marched out, head high, but her soul was trembling.

House stood in the middle of his office, his mind going a hundred miles an hour and not on any of his officially assigned cases. There was no joy at all in victory. He never even noticed when his thinking ball dropped from distracted fingers and rolled away across the office floor.


	17. Chapter 17

In mid afternoon, House limped into the ICU. The endoscopy on the President had just been finished, and he definitely needed to talk to the President and his wife with results and further questions, but he'd give him a while first to fight out of the Versed. Even with anesthesia reversal, the President wouldn't be back to full alertness for the rest of today. House would talk to him before then - questioning people who were slightly drugged could actually help at times - but right now, he wanted to visit the Jensen brothers.

Presidential procedures were turning nearly into as much of a pain as Cuddy's constant checks on him. First, House had to explain exactly what he was doing and wanted to accomplish to the President's staff, including the Secret Service, who were watching every move. Then, if the procedure involved any kind of anesthesia or sedation, further steps came into play. The Vice President must be notified, the security of the country handed off, and several other maddening steps that had delayed the procedure into the afternoon. Apparently, you can't just anesthetize the President. There is a national protocol which must be followed if he is to be mentally off line for any amount of time. House was envisioning creative things to do with red tape at this point.

Cuddy had at least backed off verbally after their confrontation earlier, but she still kept appearing on the periphery, popping up to watch him work for a few minutes. He'd spotted her four separate times since their argument in his office. This was crazy. He realized she was trying to control the world as a reaction from last night, but why that should specifically make her lose all professional trust in him was a mystery.

So he took a few minutes after finishing with the President's endoscopy to go check on Mark. He really did need to check on Mark, but he also wanted to see Jensen. Even if the psychiatrist was knee deep in his own crisis at the moment, even if they couldn't really talk, House just wanted to see him. Just looking at Jensen could be reassuring.

Mark and his brother were both asleep at the moment, and House felt a brief stab of envy. He was worn out himself after his very short night last night, and he would have loved a nap in his Eames chair, but he doubted he could shut his mind off right now anyway. Besides which, no doubt Cuddy would pop up five minutes after he sat down and lecture him on not diligently working.

Cuddy. With a sigh, he switched his attention to Mark. The low-grade temperature was still there, and in sleep, unguarded, Mark looked definitely uncomfortable. House picked up a hand, examining the joints. Mark pulled back slightly in his sleep with a grunt, and Jensen, in the visitor's chair, snapped to attention and opened his eyes. "The small joints in his hand are just slightly swollen now," House announced softly.

Jensen looked at Mark's hand, unable to see it, then brought his own alongside for comparison. Slight but there. House was right. "Have you identified the infection yet?"

"No, and my best guess so far bit the dust. We're still working. I'm going to pull another complete set of cultures and then start him on antibiotics anyway. Unfortunately, without knowing what we're fighting, we'll have to go for shotgun approach, and most of these atypical infections are very specific in the antibiotic it takes to nail them. But it's doing something at least."

Jensen studied his brother and sighed. "He's feeling worse all the time. Don't think he _could_ hide it from the family at this point, even without me."

"Actually, having it start to move into the joints and attack another system besides the heart will help us. The more symptoms, the more it can narrow down the field."

Jensen didn't look too reassured at the thought. House made a note in Mark's chart, and the psychiatrist turned attention from his brother to the doctor, reminding himself how House had saved Cathy. Mark had the best possible chance here under House's care. Jensen suddenly came more alert, studying House's face and posture. "What's wrong?" the psychiatrist asked.

House shook his head. "Lisa."

Using her first name, Jensen noted, which meant House was rattled himself. But there was also a thin, hidden edge of insecurity underneath House's tone which Jensen was attuned enough by now to pick up. House was worried about his wife but also uncertain where the two of them stood. This really wasn't the time for a session, and Jensen didn't feel like one anyway, but a little friendly advice couldn't hurt. "Whatever she's doing or saying at the moment isn't about you, Dr. House. It's about last night. Don't take it personally."

"Yeah," House replied. Trouble was, Cuddy definitely _was_ focusing on him personally. She couldn't possibly be keeping tabs this closely on the rest of her world; there were only 60 minutes in an hour, even for a control freak. "I'm starting to think she needs help," House continued. "Professionally, I mean. More than just me."

Jensen frowned at the tail on that statement. House didn't think she needed him? Definitely not the time or place to dig into that, though, when a nurse could walk in any moment. "I think that's a very good idea. Anybody would recommend it after her experience last night."

"Well of course _you_ think it's a great idea," House retorted. "You're a shrink. I doubt _she's_ going to see it quite that way. And she'd have to want it. Even if I jumped over her head to the dean, which she'd never forgive me for, mandatory counseling wouldn't work with her. She'd just shut down tighter."

The psychiatrist nodded. "I'm afraid you're right there. You have a better chance of talking her into it than anybody else, though."

Just then, a woman entered the ICU room, surging in on a tide of worry. Jensen came to his feet, and she went straight to him, hugging him tightly. The woman just held on for a minute, then released him with a flash of irritation. "When all this is over, Michael, I have a bone to pick with you," she said softly.

Jensen flinched and looked guilty, caught red-handed in the act of withholding information. "Pam, this is Dr. House. This is Mark's wife."

Looking at her, House remembered her vaguely from the wedding. Tall, nearly as tall as her husband, blond, and determined. She was looking at her husband now, sizing up the situation. "How's he doing, Dr. House?"

"Not that good. We're still tracking down the infection that's caused all of this. I'm starting him on antibiotics anyway, but we won't know until we identify it which is the right one. His heart is stable with the pacemaker."

Pam shook her head, looking at her husband's restless, uncomfortable sleep. "Is he unconscious?"

"Shouldn't be. He was reacting to me examining him a minute ago. I think he's just asleep; we were talking softly."

She picked up Mark's hand herself and squeezed it. "Mark? Wake up, Mark. I'm here."

It took a bit of effort, House noted, in spite of Mark's restlessness, but he opened his eyes and focused on his wife, almost immediately trying to sit up. Jensen pushed him back down. "I'm fine, Pam," Mark said first thing in answer to her worried look. "Just a bug. They'll fix it, and I'm out of here."

"Forget it, buster," she stated. "You aren't going anywhere."

Mark rolled his eyes and looked over at his brother. "Did you _have_ to freak out the whole family, Michael?"

Pam cut in. "He _should_ have freaked out the whole family two weeks ago, and at this point, I'm working off what I see right now."

House broke into this loving family reunion. "Mark, couple more questions. I won't bother asking how you're feeling; your brother gives me straighter answers. But think about the last several weeks again. Have you been _anywhere_ unusual? Traveling?"

Mark shook his head and flinched almost imperceptibly, and House mentally added headache to the latest list of symptoms. "I haven't been anywhere odd lately. Just work and home."

"About work, you go around to different buildings. Nothing unusual in the environment at any of them?"

"No."

"Has anything stung you, bitten you, been spilled on you, anything like that?"

"No. Work has been totally routine."

"Trouble is, infection sources don't always come with surgeon general labels so you recognize them. I need a list of the places you've been in your job the last month."

Mark straightened up in the bed again. "No way. You have a lab; you can test me to pieces. You already are. But I'm not giving you the addresses of my clients."

"Mark, for a medical reason, they'd understand," Jensen put in.

"No," Mark repeated. He was as locked down on that point as he was on not being sick. "They _trust_ me. And there was nothing at any of them. This is just the flu or something; people get it at the mall or the grocery store every day."

"People do _not_ get this at the grocery store every day," House insisted. "Can you at least tell me about how many installations you've done over, say, the last two months?" That would also be a subtle memory check.

Mark had to think about it. He had to think about it a little too long, assuming the same baseline intelligence as his brother, which given the chess record was a valid assumption. "Roughly three or so a week, so about 25."

House yielded that point. Trying to do a site check on 25 different locations in a different state would take far more time than they had. Mark was getting worse too quickly; they would have to rely on the lab, just going down the list, as they were. At that moment, House's cell phone rang. "Keep thinking if there's anything unusual you remember," he stated as he pulled it out. Marina. Great. All they needed to complete this day was a problem with either her or the girls. House gave a perfunctory nod to the Jensen clan and retreated outside the room to an unoccupied corner of the nurse's station. The nurses in the other half of it moved away minutely and focused very intently on their work. Nobody was going to bother him here. He answered the phone.

"Marina, is something wrong?"

"Not with the girls or me. It's Dr. Cuddy."

House sighed, imagining Cuddy micromanaging the feisty Hispanic nanny. "Let me guess. She's been trying to tell you how to do your job and making sure you're doing it?"

"_Three times_ she's called me today," Marina protested. "Three times. She just called a little while ago to remind me it was nap time. She called earlier to remind me it was time for lunch, and this morning, she was reminding me where Abby's clothes are." House could hear the annoyance. "Over two years now I've done this job, since Rachel came, and I _know_ when it's time for lunch."

Three times? Marina only got checked up on _three _times? House himself was far in the lead past that. He fought down his own irritation. "I know, Marina. She had a bad experience last night, and it's shaken her up some." Which had to be the understatement of the year.

"I saw on the news. But that does _not_ mean she needs to do everybody's job. She needs to talk to somebody instead of driving us all crazy. You tell her. Make her an appointment."

House closed his eyes. "I really doubt she's going to listen to me on that."

"Okay then, _I'll _tell her."

House quickly defused that potential keg of dynamite. They couldn't afford to lose Marina, and Cuddy right now was quite capable of pushing her to quit. She would never accept the nanny telling her she needed therapy. "All right, Marina. I'll talk to her. I apologize that she's been bothering you today."

"You tell her then," Marina stated with satisfaction.

"I will." House looked around and realized suddenly that he hadn't seen Cuddy for 45 minutes, a first that day. A second later, he realized why. "She had a board meeting this afternoon, and she'll be in that now. She must have called you right before she went to it. I'll talk to her as soon as that's over."

"Good. She'll listen to you."

Why was everybody so convinced of that? Jensen, Marina. Cuddy definitely wasn't showing signs of more faith in him than the rest of the world. Less, if anything. "Can I talk to the girls for a minute?" He suddenly wanted to touch base with a routine and normal piece of life himself.

"It's _nap time_," Marina reminded him.

"Right. Don't wake them up then. I'll talk to Dr. Cuddy. Thank you, Marina; we wouldn't know what to do without you."

The nanny gave a humph and hung up, and House massaged his temples for a moment. He was developing a headache himself at this point. A passing aide gave him a sympathetic look, and he nailed her with a glare that sent her scurrying on about her business. With a sigh, House stood up and headed off to go tell the President that he had ulcers.


	18. Chapter 18

Cuddy stalked through the halls of PPTH, annoyance in every step, and staff and visitors alike parted like the Red Sea before her.

The board meeting had been a disaster. Those _idiots_ had arrived all on time for once, except Wilson whose absence was understandable given Sandra. But rather than diving into the precisely arranged agenda waiting at each place on the conference table, they were upset about her email. Objections and blame for the inefficiency of prior meetings surged from all sides and crashed together in the middle, as well as protests that she could not unilaterally institute a new policy for board meetings without giving the board a chance to debate on it. Yes, irony of ironies, the members had wasted quite a bit of time debating a measure to waste less time, and Cuddy's voice of logic and reason had been lost in the storm.

Even worse, one member had suggested to the others that they ought to cut her some slack as she was obviously upset from last night. How many times would she have to repeat it before everyone realized that last night had _nothing_ to do with it. Furthermore, she was _not upset! _

She had had minutes of prior meetings and tried to use those to point out how long meetings took, trying to present objective evidence in support of her proposal, but that only started another swirl of the blame game over why previous meetings could take so long. In the end, after far more than two minutes per person, they voted by landslide, with Cuddy the only dissenter, to table her proposal for further study and consideration.

On that spectacular opening note, the rest of the agenda had proceeded, and it, too, didn't come close to two minutes per speaker.

Now, behind on her afternoon schedule and irritated, she strode vigorously down the halls. She needed to go find House and make sure he was working.

(H/C)

House and Kutner both were at the President's bedside. The President was looking definitely drowsy still, but House couldn't let this opportunity for possibly less-guarded answers pass.

"This explains your GI symptoms lately, the lack of appetite, and also your hypoglycemic attack at the speech yesterday. You simply hadn't eaten enough to keep your blood sugar up."

"But that's good news, isn't it?" the First Lady put in. "It's treatable."

"Yes, it's treatable. Unfortunately, what it does _not_ explain is the problem with his feet." House pulled the sheet off of the presidential extremities for another look. The toes on both feet were quite dusky now, looking wrong at this point even to those without medical training. House checked the pulses again. "This isn't a blood clot; we ran a Doppler. No swelling in the legs, either. It's not related to diabetes, because you don't have diabetes. So more questions. I'm assuming you've been traveling extensively. Where in the last two months?"

"Two _months_?" the President protested. "Do you have any idea how many miles I rack up just in a week?"

"Be glad I didn't ask for the last year," House responded. "Where?"

The President tried to think about it, but his mind still was a bit slow, shaking off the Versed. One of his staff stepped forward. "Dr. House, we can get you a complete list."

"Good, but I need his version to make _sure_ it's a complete list." House looked around at the entourage in the hospital room, which included right now the First Lady, the presidential doctor, three other staff members, and three Secret Service men. That was just in this room; many more authorized personnel were in the hall outside. "So, chief, do you ever get tired of this?" House asked, nodding at the audience. "Ever get fed up with having them hanging around all the time? Ever get tempted to sneak out and go somewhere like a kid violating curfew?"

"It isn't quite this bad at home," the First Lady insisted. "They're nervous after last night." But the President had smiled almost imperceptibly, and House was on it like a cat on a mouse.

"Since according to you, you hardly ever _are_ home, that means yes, you get to feeling claustrophobic sometimes. So where have you managed to sneak out to lately, and what did you do there?"

"I can't sneak out," the President insisted.

"Not even with one trusted guard?" House studied the three available. "Grease the right palm, and you might get by with a short escape if they went with you." The Secret Service didn't react; House had already tried to get them to with several statements, almost like teasing the soldiers at the Changing of the Guard. The men were truly unflappable.

But that didn't mean that the President might not have angled for an unauthorized time-out for breathing space with just a guard or two along. Given the amount of red tape he lived with, House would be amazed if the man _hadn't_ had a brief rebellion or two over the years.

"I can't sneak out," the President repeated. His eyelids were drooping.

House jumped to the next topic. "Okay, next question. Have you had sex with anybody except your wife lately? Especially anybody in another country?"

The First Lady bristled indignantly, and the President spoke as if from his campaign script. "I once 15 years ago had an inappropriate relationship with a woman, which I deeply regret. I have asked for and received the forgiveness of my wife after that and mended my ways, and Maddie and I are perfectly happy in our marriage."

House rolled his eyes. "I'm trying to treat you, not decide whether I want to vote for you. Drop the script."

"He has _not_ been with anybody else recently," his wife insisted, with a look at the President that was trust mixed with threat.

"Define recently," House pushed. He got a bilateral glare from the First Family on that one. "There are some rare infections that can cause this; tracking down a possible source environment would help me identify it faster to treat him. Aside from medically, I couldn't care less where he's been or with whom. I'm not trying to get a scoop for the National Inquirer; I'm trying to keep both of your feet attached!"

The President flinched and looked down at his feet. His wife's ire faded as she looked at them, too. "You think there's a danger he might lose his feet?"

"Yes, if we can't stop the process. If it goes into full necrosis and we can't get on top of it with antibiotics, we'll have to move on to debridement and possibly to amputation. Otherwise, it will be poisoning the rest of the body, and the process will just spread."

The President shook his head in disbelief. "But then I'd be _crippled_."

House suddenly became even more aware of his own cane and the pain in his leg, worse than usual today. "So are a lot of people, and they still keep on with life. So was FDR, and he even managed to be President."

"He didn't mean anything by that, Dr. House," his wife covered. "He's still not quite thinking straight because of the drugs. It's just a shock to think about something like that happening to us."

House turned, spotting Cuddy peering into the room. He hadn't bothered to go looking for her, knowing she would find him as soon as the board meeting was over. She looked pissed. Great. She'd no doubt be more pissed in a few minutes. "Kutner, keep working on the history. Countries, sites and events he went to, things he might have been exposed to from people there." He turned away and felt the President's eyes on him as he walked to the door, assessing the limp, trying to imagine living with it.

The trouble was, of course, nobody who hadn't been there had any idea what it was actually like, in full detail, to be handicapped.

House stopped in front of Cuddy, just outside the room door. "Dr. Cuddy, could I talk to you for a minute?" He looked around at all the guards and staff. "In your office?"

(H/C)

They entered Cuddy's office, and House closed the door carefully and then drew the blinds before turning to face her.

Cuddy hadn't bothered to sit down at her desk. She was waiting for whatever he wanted to say, already prepared to defend against it. He abruptly pictured a catcher in full gear, face mask included, ready to be on top of any possible ball. He sighed. "Sit down, Lisa."

She hesitated, so he sat down himself on the couch. His leg was screaming, and he rubbed it. Her eyes softened at the gesture, and she sat down next to him. "Are you okay, Greg? You look tired."

"It's been one hell of a day," he said. The forecast didn't show it improving much either. "Marina called me a little while ago."

Cuddy jumped, and there was an edge of pure fear underlying her voice. "Are the girls okay? Is anything wrong?"

"They're fine," House reassured her. Now, for the second part of that question. He hesitated on the edge of the volcano, reminded himself that if he didn't do this, Marina would, and then reluctantly jumped. "Marina said you'd called her three times today telling her how to do her job."

"Yes, I did," Cuddy said, sounding absolutely matter of fact. This wasn't a problem in her eyes. "I just wanted to remind her of a few things."

"To _remind_ her of a few things? Lisa, Marina has done that job for two years. She doesn't need you breathing down her neck."

"I wasn't breathing down her neck. But as the girls' mother, I have a perfect right to check in on them."

"And when have you ever done that three times in a day before today? Lisa, I know you're shaken up . . ."

She erupted off the couch and started pacing the room, a whirlwind of denial. "This is _not_ about last night. As an administrator, it's my job to make sure other people do theirs efficiently."

"And part of being an administrator is _trusting _them when they've earned it. Lisa, you can't pester Marina to death. She was complaining to me."

Cuddy made a fast turn and came back to stand directly in front of him. "They were simple, short, pleasant conversations. She has no cause to complain."

House had been trying to channel Jensen, but it simply wasn't working. His own patience, never too long anyway, and his concern surged to the front, and unwittingly, he landed on the one possible argument with the nanny which Cuddy would have listened to right now. "Lisa, do you realize how hard it is to find a good, reliable, trustworthy nanny? If you keep managing Marina like you're her parole officer, she'll quit, and then where would we be with the girls? We'd have to find someone else we had confidence in, someone we _knew_ would keep them safe. Marina _does_ that for us now. If she leaves, we'd have a hell of a time replacing her with anybody as good. Imagine worrying about a new nanny, someone we didn't know being there with our daughters. Think of leaving them every day with a stranger."

He paused for air and looked for clues how this was going. Cuddy actually had gone pale. "She was that upset about it?" she asked, much more softly.

"Yes, she was. We can't afford to lose her, Lisa. We can buy somebody else, but we can't buy the trust we already have here. She takes care of the girls so well for us. You know she does."

Cuddy considered that. "Maybe I went too far with her."

"Yes, you did. Please, Lisa, back off a little bit. At least with Marina." House took a deep breath and launched himself into the final, deepest crater, aware of the red-hot lava boiling below. "Lisa, I really think after watching you today that you need to talk to somebody."

He avoided putting on the tag of "about last night." She hit the roof anyway. "You mean _professionally?_ You think _I _need a therapist?"

He tried to skitter around last night's events. "Look, Lisa, we've been through a lot of things in the past few years. I'm sure there's a lot of cumulative stress involved. Hell, just being in a relationship with me for over two years ought to be enough proof that somebody needs therapy."

She didn't even crack a grin. "Greg, I am in _perfect_ control of my life, and I don't need to spend our money to talk to a psychiatrist about issues I don't even have. And don't try to tell me you aren't thinking of last night. If this wasn't about last night, you would have already brought it up in the last two years. Last night is _over_, and there is _nothing_ from it that needs to be dealt with further."

He sighed. "It was you who finally talked me into it, and just think of how much that's helped me. I never thought years ago I'd ever say this, but therapy can do a lot of good for people."

"_I'm_ not the one who couldn't deal with things myself," she snapped.

The words seemed to echo in the room, hovering in the air between them and repeating. House lurched to his feet in one frantic, impulsive, off-balance movement, but once upright, he did not flee. His eyes were glued to hers, absolutely stunned. Cuddy looked horrified herself as for the first time all day, she truly heard one of her statements.

"Greg, I didn't . . . that didn't come out right. I didn't mean it like that. I'm just . . . on edge, I guess, with having the President here in the hospital as a patient and how big this case is. But I didn't -"

House's pager went off, the imperious demand cutting through the suddenly stifling air in the office. They both looked down, and slowly, almost robotically, House pulled it out and looked at it. "Damn," he said. He looked back up at her, the blue eyes still shell-shocked. "Patient crashing."

Cuddy sounded distracted herself, less fixated on the subject of patients than she had been all day. "Which one? The President or Mark?"

He shook his head. "Wilson, Jr."

She closed her eyes briefly. He stood there, absolutely still. He wasn't running. Somewhere in the airtight, sealed-off room in the back of her mind, she marveled at that. Even after her unfortunate choice of words, he was _not_ running.

But Wilson and Sandra's baby needed him. Their family in danger. Their child at stake.

She reached out and put a hand on his arm. He neither pulled away nor moved into her. "Go on, Greg," she said softly.

He looked at her for a moment, weighing the situation, then nodded. Without a word, he turned and left the office.


	19. Chapter 19

House headed toward the ORs at his fastest limp. His stride was steady, purposeful, but his soul was reeling.

He could not believe she had said that.

All through the last two years, Cuddy had been his absolute rock as he finally started to deal with his past. Without her, he never would have begun therapy at all. For her to play that card, to imply that he ought to have been able to deal better with things and not needed help at all, was a shot straight to the heart. Of course, she had almost immediately said she hadn't meant it. At least, she hadn't meant to say it. He couldn't question her horrified look; she had _not_ meant to say that.

But had she thought it at times, privately, maybe even subconsciously, tucked down somewhere so deeply that it would only emerge under stress? Was she getting tired of dealing with his issues? Did she think sometimes that he really _should _have been able to handle things better? And if she did, how on earth was he going to manage to go on without the anchor he'd come to rely on? He _was_ improving, damn it, and he knew that, but he also knew that he wasn't yet near the point where his past was completely overcome and would never again be an issue. And what about the trial looming next month? She'd confirmed that she would come, but her tone had been exactly that of adding an annoying obligation to her agenda, something right up there with a tooth extraction. How could he possibly go through that if she didn't really want to be there for him?

And back to the current problem, House had no doubt now that _she_ needed professional help, but even her shock at blurting out that statement to him had not softened her position regarding herself. She had already been assigning other motives for her stress even in the next moment, claiming that the President's case as an administrative burden had her on edge. Last night remained as impregnable of a lockbox in her mind as it had been before.

Then, of course, there was Mark's case. Mark was steadily getting worse, and House was no closer to a diagnosis. Even if Jensen wasn't pushing him, the hope in the man's eyes every time House entered the room was painful. Plus the President's case; House had to try to figure out a way to talk to him alone, and he had no idea how yet. Especially after last night, there was no way the bodyguards would just go out for a coffee break. Had to get his wife out of the room, too.

And now Wilson's son was in distress, and Sandra was being taken for an emergency C-section.

It was all too much at once. House loved juggling, but at the moment, he felt like additional balls were being pelted at him nonstop, and it was only a matter of time before he dropped one. He wondered which ball it would be, whom he would let down this time.

He opened the door to the observation deck of OR 4 and found Wilson there, as expected on his feet and ignoring the chairs. The oncologist was one raw nerve as he watched the action below. Sandra had just been put under general, faster than doing a spinal, and the surgical team was starting to prep her abdomen.

Wilson turned quickly to House as the other man entered, pure relief in his eyes, but his words had a different message entirely. "What _took_ you so long?"

"I stopped off at Disneyland on the way just to waste time," House snapped. He glanced at his watch. Barely five minutes since he had been paged, which was pretty good time on a cross-hospital dash. _For a cripple_, he couldn't help adding mentally.

Wilson looked wounded. "This is my _son_, House. You _said _you'd be here."

"I _am_ here," House pointed out. "What happened? Everything was okay a few hours ago." He'd checked on Sandra twice today, in and around all the other insanity of the day. Sandra had still been having occasional breakthrough contractions, never settling to a pattern but obviously hovering just under the edge of the tocolytics. The baby, though, had been stable on monitors throughout Sandra's whole hospital course. All the problems to date had seemed to involve her.

Wilson turned back quickly to look into the OR below. "He just suddenly went into distress on the fetal monitors. Her blood pressure started climbing, too."

"_After_ he went into distress?" House asked. Wilson nodded. "That part could be just stress reaction for her."

"Yes, I _know_ she's stressed out with all this, but thank you so much for reminding me."

House's meager stock of patience was being challenged from all sides today. He's worried, the diagnostician reminded himself. He looked at Wilson clinically, noting the elevated respirations and the slight trembling of the hands. "Take an Ativan," House recommended. "You won't be much help to them if you're freaking out yourself."

"I am _not_ freaking out," Wilson said defensively. He fumbled in his pocket for the pill bottle, though, and then got into a fight with the lid. House reached across impatiently and opened the bottle for him, and Wilson took the pill. His attention quickly switched from his friend back to the scene below. "He's _got_ to be healthy."

House said nothing, not sure what at all could be said right now. He settled for just standing there alongside the other man, even though his leg would have appreciated one of the chairs. Together they watched the incision, and Wilson flinched as if it had been performed on himself without benefit of anesthesia. The OB dissected down through the layers, moving quickly but being careful at the same time. The uterus was reached, and the surgeon quickly opened it, feeling around. "Cord around the neck," he announced, freeing the infant and lifting him out. A good-sized baby for age, House noted with relief. Only five weeks from due date; strictly developmentally speaking, this should be a whole different world than Abby's far earlier entrance.

And Abby had fought for it and was fine now. Hopefully this child would, too.

The infant had been handed off to the waiting NICU staff, and they worked in silence. The child was alive; even from the observation room, they could see him wiggling and reacting to touch. But there was no sound.

"Why isn't he crying?" Wilson demanded, leaning forward until his nose hit the glass.

The staff below obviously were in pursuit of the same question, trying to stimulate the infant. He was definitely reactive and didn't seem to like their efforts, but there was a far-too-long pause until finally a thin cry was heard. That was almost more frightening, because it was painfully obvious to everyone that it did not sound right. The tone was odd, one that Wilson had not heard on a baby before. The oncologist glanced away for just a second to House, and his friend had his head tilted, the diagnostic wheels spinning. House didn't think it was right, either.

Wilson closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, unable to stop watching the frantic activity below. "Go to him, House," he said softly. "Help my son."

House gave him one awkward touch on the arm, then disappeared, limping out of the observation room. The NICU team was still working below by the time House, now in scrubs, joined the scene. The very fact that the activity around his son had not yet decreased spoke volumes to Wilson. House pushed into the group, limping heavily without the support of his non-sterile cane, and Wilson saw him bend over the baby. It was another five minutes before finally, the infant cart was wheeled out of the OR, House limping alongside it in pursuit along with the rest of the team.

Slowly, shakily, Wilson sat down for the first time since he'd entered the observation room. He buried his head in his hands, and he felt the hard blow as finally, the thread snapped, and the sword fell.

(H/C)

Wilson entered the recovery room. Sandra had just been brought in and was still unconscious, and Wilson walked over to stand beside her bed. Her face was pale. He reached out and stroked her brunette hair back off her forehead, just looking at her for a moment, memorizing her face. Finally, he bent over to kiss her. "I'm sorry," he said, so softly that none of the personnel bustling around the room heard. "I'm sorry for everything."

Straightening up, he turned and left the room. Once outside, he pulled out his cell phone and checked it. No message yet from House, which could only mean one thing. They were still working on stabilizing his son, on trying to repair the problems that Wilson himself had caused. This wasn't simply a cord around the neck. It couldn't be, not taking this long. The only reason for no update was that the situation was too critical to allow time to send one. Wilson slowly turned off his cell phone. Mechanically, on wooden feet, he left the hospital.

(H/C)

He slunk into the bar like a guilty teenager, waiting for someone to challenge him. No one did. Wilson slid onto an empty stool at the bar, and the bartender gave him an impersonal look of inquiry. "Scotch," Wilson ordered. A minute later, it was in front of him. Wilson braced himself against the taste as he gulped it quickly, but the liquor had nothing against the bitterness of his regrets. He put down the glass and nodded the next time the bartender walked by, ordering another.


	20. Chapter 20

House limped quickly after the baby into the NICU, the search engine of his mind already sorting possibilities. Difficulty breathing, odd-sounding cry, tachycardia, tachypnea, slightly blue-tinged skin. He didn't think this was HSV2. Which wasn't to say that the kid didn't have HSV, as it was quite possible to be gifted with more than one condition. But everything House was hitting right now on his mental search pointed to congenital heart or lung defect. Not just prematurity; a 35-week delivery did not usually create this severe of a problem with the lungs. Maybe some oxygen needed, but the kid should have been able to contribute more than he had been to the breathing process. There was something else wrong.

The cart arrived in the NICU. The baby was stabilizing nicely now intubated and on the ventilator. House stood next to the neonatologist, the same one who had been primary on Abby's case, and they studied the infant.

"Heart or lung defect," the neonatologist suggested, looking at House.

House reached out to poke the abdomen, which looked less rounded than the usual on a baby. "Maybe CDH. I know they had an ultrasound about 18 weeks, but I didn't see it myself. Could have missed one developing." A congenital diaphragmatic hernia occurs when the diaphragm forms with a hole in it, and the abdominal organs migrate up through the hole into the chest cavity, which quickly becomes overcrowded, putting pressure on the organs already there. Not an issue while the baby is in the mother's womb, it almost immediately becomes one when the child is asked to deliver oxygen for himself. The possibility of HSV might have even assisted in overlooking something else entering the picture. Wilson, Sandra, and the OB had all been so focused on the possibility of HSV that it had been the featured topic of almost all prenatal visits. "He went into distress in utero, but the cord around the neck could explain that."

The neonatologist considered, then nodded. "Do you know if there's a family history of CDH?"

House shook his head. "Not that anybody's mentioned. That's a complicated one genetically, though." He looked at the child, who looked much less blue than a few minutes ago and still reacting. "He seems to be a frisky one, anyway. He looks like a fighter."

"He does. I'd say chest x-ray, ABGs first off. If it's CDH, that will show up quickly. Anything else you'd add?"

"Echocardiogram to look for any other congenital heart anomaly," House said. "ECMO if we have to, but he's picking up just on vent. Might be able to go on to surgery pretty soon if he stays stable." Assuming that it was a CDH, surgery is required. The contents are all resorted appropriately and the hole in the diaphragm stitched up. The child still usually needs a NICU course while the lungs, cramped during gestation, finish developing, but surgery is curative of the original problem, and a child who makes it through surgery usually has a fairly good prognosis from the CDH standpoint. Other problems such as gastroesophageal reflux or asthma could arise later and require meds. Sometimes there were continued issues requiring treatment for a while, but many babies go on ultimately to be perfectly fine. There could be other coexisting defects of the heart, and they'd have to test thoroughly, but if Wilson, Jr., had no other congenital issues, could stay stable on the vent without requiring going to ECMO, and survived surgery, he probably had a far shorter NICU course ahead of him than Abby had required. There was also a chance of coexisting trisomy 21, better known as Down's syndrome, but that had associated physical characteristics that House wasn't seeing any trace of here. They would test, of course, just to rule it out.

There was still the issue of HSV2. House reached out and stroked a foot, and the infant again reacted immediately. He simply was not seeing neurological signs in this child at this point. It was only common sense to rule out the diagnosis, but right now, based on his observations, he was considering running that test himself on the side under a pseudonym rather than dumping it right in the chart for the PPTH grapevine to see. Only Sandra's obstetrician knew, and Sandra and Wilson had wanted to keep it that way and out of their workplace if possible unless their son had problems that made it relevant. House had intended to call in Taub on this case, but if there was a quick diagnosis of CDH, he thought he'd leave Taub out of it and run HSV2 on his own. That would also leave Taub with Mark, who was looking a lot more complicated diagnostically.

The neonatologist turned away to order up the first tests, and House studied the baby. He touched him again, and the child opened his eyes and looked back at him. He had Wilson's eyes. "Kid, you've got problems," House announced softly. He waited almost out of reflex for the automatic denial, then grinned suddenly. "You aren't going to tell me you're perfectly fine?" No reply. House's grin expanded into a full smile. "No arguments? Well how about that. For _once_ today, I get the last word."

(H/C)

Three hours later, House limped into the elevator, exhausted but satisfied. Wilson's son had a Bochdalek hernia, the most common type of CDH, and it was only medium in severity. The neonatologist had seen far worse cases. No other heart defects had shown up on echocardiogram. Genetic tests were being performed, but right now, unless the kid did have HSV2, House was confident in the diagnosis and prognosis. Most importantly, relating to the prognosis, the child was staying stable on the ventilator and not requiring maximum settings, certainly not requiring switch to ECMO. After the shock of birth, he was fighting to adapt to his new life out in the world. The pediatric thoracic surgeon was consulting right now. They did like to wait until the infant was stable on minimal ventilator settings to head for surgery, but hopefully the kid would be able to tolerate an operation fairly soon.

But House couldn't get in touch with Wilson. He had left a few messages and updates, but all went to voice mail. With the diagnosis solid and the most urgent tests out of the way, he was now heading off to search for Wilson himself. He had also told the surgeon he would get consent for the surgery so that would be on file whenever the surgeon decided to proceed. The surgeon had been all for going to talk to Wilson himself, and House, getting concerned now, had preempted him. House wanted a chance for a solo evaluation first. Wilson's overwhelming guilt complicated things, and nobody else on the baby's case except House would understand that.

House searched first, of course, with Sandra. She had been moved back to a room and was still sleeping off the anesthesia. According to her chart, she had woken up briefly once, still foggy, and had quickly fallen back asleep. But Wilson was not here, and the nurses on the floor had not seen him since Sandra was taken to surgery. House frowned and tried calling again. Nothing. He tried Wilson's home number with the same result, although he couldn't think of a valid reason for Wilson to leave the hospital with his girlfriend just post surgery and his son in crisis.

Tapping his cane in thought, House left the OB floor after telling the nurses to page him when Sandra woke up and was lucid and capable of a medical conversation. Somebody had to bring her up to speed, after all. Up to Wilson's office, which was dark and locked. House considered and then dragged his protesting body up that final flight of stairs to the roof. Nothing. He called again and left yet another voice mail, sounding far more annoyed now, which was his way of expressing concern. "Wilson, you idiot, where the hell are you? The kid has CDH. Don't know about HSV yet; I'll run that myself, but I don't think so. He's hanging in there. He'll need surgery, but he's hanging on. So climb out of your guilt hole and pick up the damn phone!"

With a sigh, House retreated back down the stairs, almost stumbling at one point and saving himself by his left hand on the railing. Feeling angry, concerned, still wounded by Cuddy, and suddenly shaky, he hobbled back down to his office. His collapse into his Eames chair was barely aborted at the last second. There was a plate with a Reuben sitting on the chair, and tucked under the edge of it was a note in the well-loved handwriting. He pulled it out and read.

_Greg, _

_I'm sorry. XX_

_All my love, _

_Lisa_

He couldn't help smiling as he imagined the actions that accompanied the words these days. The note didn't erase the hurt, but it did ease it slightly. Would she refer to their new reconditioning if she were just tired of dealing with him? House reread the note four times, then moved the plate and more or less fell into the chair. He was suddenly, overwhelmingly tired, and he still felt shaky.

Shaky. He eyed the Reuben and tried to remember if he'd had lunch. Maybe he was hypoglycemic. Not that he felt hungry, but he knew his system short-circuited the normal routes sometimes under stress. He took an experimental bite of the sandwich, then another, running a differential. It helped. He ate it, then washed down a round of pills with the glass of water sitting beside his chair. He still felt exhausted but at least a little steadier. He pulled out his cell phone and called.

"Greg?" She sounded shaken up and trying to hide it. Shaken up. Damn it, no matter whether she was tired of his drama or not, she _still_ needed therapy herself. He didn't mention that at the moment, though. He couldn't. He simply couldn't take one more conversation turned into a battleground between them today.

"Hi."

"Did you find the note?"

"Yes, I did. And the sandwich," he added, automatically downplaying the more emotionally charged note.

"I mean it, Greg. I'm just stressed out today from the President's case, but I shouldn't have said that." She sounded urgent there, trying to convince him.

No, she shouldn't have said that. But had part of her meant it? He didn't ask, nor did he challenge her self-diagnosis. Not tonight. He just wanted to hear her voice, and not her annoyed voice, either. He just wanted to talk to her for a few minutes and pretend that today had never happened, even if the pretense would evaporate again tomorrow. "Got the diagnosis on the kid," he announced, firmly abandoning the topic of their earlier conversation in her office.

"Already? What's wrong? How's he doing?" There was real concern there on Sandra and Wilson's behalf.

"He's got a congenital diaphragmatic hernia. His abdomen went up into his chest cavity to keep it company. Operation to fix it, and he's probably going to be okay. There can be other associated problems, but we aren't finding any so far."

Cuddy gave a sigh of relief. "Good. So it wasn't HSV2?"

"I don't think so," House answered. "I'm going to run the test myself, keep it more private that way. But I'm just not seeing that so far."

"Wilson must be relieved." She heard his sigh. "Greg? Have you had a chance to tell Wilson?"

"Not yet, but it's sure not for lack of trying. He's left the hospital, and he's not answering his cell phone."

Cuddy's stress-fueled anger fired back up quickly, at least with a different target this time. "He _left _the _hospital_? Without knowing anything about his child? Without even staying with Sandra?"

"Looks that way. I've searched everywhere he might be, and the phone just goes to voice mail. Last I saw him, the kid had just been born and gone into respiratory distress. I kind of had my hands full for a while after that, but none of the nurses have seen him, either. Sure looks like he abandoned ship."

Cuddy's silence was eloquent. When she spoke finally, House could imagine her flashing eyes. "Sometimes I wonder why women have put up with him."

"Most of them hit their limit sooner or later." Was there a bit of transference there of her own feelings toward House? He sighed again.

"Are you okay, Greg?" The annoyance at Wilson evaporated to be replaced by what sounded like pure concern.

"Just tired. I'm probably going to stay here tonight. I want to run that test, and after hours in the lab is a great time to keep it off the record. I also told the nurses to page me when Sandra wakes up and is with it enough for some medical information. _Somebody_ needs to talk to her about the kid."

"Of course. Although _Wilson_ should have been there for that. Idiot. Get some sleep in your chair, Greg. You sound worn out. Did you eat the sandwich?"

"Yes, I did," he promised. "Give the girls a kiss for me, okay?" He wished he could talk to them, but they would have been asleep long since.

"I will. I'll see you in the morning. _I love you_, Greg." She hit the three words with emphasis.

He loved her, too. That had never been in question, but unfortunately, it wasn't the only question in play. "Love you, too," he replied. "Good night, Lisa."

"Good night, Greg." She hung up, and House sat there trying to force his weary brain to dissect that conversation for a few minutes before he decided he was just too tired. He tried Wilson again, getting voice mail one more time.

The surgical consent. Surgery probably wasn't an issue in the next several hours while they stabilized the kid, but House had promised to get consent as a means of forestalling the surgeon, who had been quite ready to go talk to Wilson himself. Anybody trying to talk to Wilson would quickly discover his absence. House studied the consent form, then hauled himself back up and limped over to the desk. With a flourish, he carefully signed Wilson's name. All that copying on prescription forms years ago was yielding dividends. Satisfied with the result, he hobbled slowly out of the office, heading for NICU to place the form in the chart and then for the lab. Then maybe, assuming the prodigal oncologist was still out of communication, House could get some sleep while waiting for Sandra to wake up fully.

Once in the lab, he ran the test twice just to be sure. Negative. This child, whatever his other problems, did not have HSV2. House tried the cell phone one more time: "Wilson, you moron, it is _not_ HSV2. I just ran the test myself twice. I also forged your name on a surgical consent for as soon as the kid is stable. So crawl out from under your guilt rock and get your ass back here before she realizes you're gone."

He shredded the test result, then finally returned to his office to collapse again in the Eames chair. With one hand still holding Cuddy's note, he fell into sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

Thanks for all the reviews! Due to multiple POVs, Wednesday night is not strictly run chronologically, so there is a little bit of overlap on the time line from one section to others.

(H/C)

The alcohol's bite was hard and fast, and Wilson welcomed it. After six months of abstinence, he no longer had any tolerance built up, and that plus the Ativan he had taken earlier only enhanced the effect. Part of him was still half waiting for somebody to show up and scold him, to challenge his actions, and he had a defense prepared for why his guilt proved the others would be better off with him out of the picture, but the rest of the world apparently wasn't looking his way at the moment, and no jury appeared to present his case to. He settled down at the bar, drinking shots steadily, and waited to forget.

Only it wasn't working.

The alcohol was doing its part. He could feel his coordination decreasing, his balance on the stool getting slowly more precarious, and the heat in his empty stomach rising to his brain, distorting thought. The fuzzy blanket of scotch tucked in around his mind. But the more he drank, oddly, the more he remembered. And the more he remembered, the less his memories were focused on _him_ and the more the spotlight sharpened on _her._

He remembered her face, the way she lifted her chin slightly to emphasize a point. He remembered her hands, smallish but steady, helping people on her job, reaching out for him. The way she had been there beside him just two days ago on the visit to Danny, and the way she had been there on previous visits. Her hand along with his on her abdomen, feeling the baby move, lost in half wonder, half anxiety. The way in their discussion about a name that she had asked him one night if it would be too painful to him to name their son Daniel after her dead father. She had truly wanted that and yet had been willing to let it go without a backward glance if he had objected. The way she had looked in recovery, pale and fragile, still unconscious, cut open not only by the scalpels but by his own stupidity.

And then he had turned and walked away. Walked away from both her and their son. He remembered the child, too, in his brief glimpse of him, surrounded by medical personnel, obviously struggling.

His son. The woman he loved.

Wilson shook his head and nearly lost his balance and fell off the bar stool as the truth hit him squarely, even through the alcohol. The more scrambled his other thoughts became, the more that central one focused.

It wasn't about him, what he had done and couldn't change. The relationship was about _them_ now, and Wilson was being a selfish coward. Jensen had told him once months ago that he didn't have the _right_ to walk out on her, that that would be a cop-out on his part. At that time, Wilson had only heard the words and had resented them. Who the hell was Jensen to tell him he was being selfish? Didn't he see how hard that decision would be on Wilson, that it could be for their benefit? Tonight, finally, he understood the statement.

A hand claimed his arm softly, and he turned, expecting to see someone here to lecture him. Instead, he focused with difficulty on a blond who had almost as much lipstick and makeup on as she had alcohol in her system. Sandra only wore minimal makeup. She was gorgeous without it, not in a classic beauty pageant way but far deeper in terms of the character that was visible in her face.

"Hi there, handsome," the blond stated, her words slurring slightly. "You look lonely. What's a nice guy like you doing sitting here all by himself?"

Wilson literally felt sick. He recoiled sharply and did lose his balance that time, falling off the stool onto the floor. "Easy there," she giggled, reaching a hand down to him. "Think you might have had one too many."

Wilson cringed, ignoring her hand and trying to grab the bar stool legs to pull up on instead. "Get away from me!" He hauled himself upright with difficulty. The room was spinning slowly around him, and he blinked at the shot glasses on the bar, trying to count, but they kept blurring together. How many _had_ he drunk?

He had to get back to Sandra and his son.

The blond closed the gap again. "Jus' trying to be friendly."

Holding onto the bar, Wilson worked his way along in front of the next three people, trying to put a barrier between them. "No. Stay 'way." His own voice, heavily slurred, was rising now. "Leave me alone."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of the other patrons he'd just wiggled in front of demanded. The line reverberated in Wilson's mind, a perfect summary of his actions tonight. What the hell _did_ he think he was doing?

The bartender closed in rapidly, as well as the bouncer. "Is there a problem here?"

Wilson shook his head again and swayed dizzily. "No. I'm jus' leaving." He fumbled in his pocket, and the bouncer firmly captured his keys.

"No way. You're not driving anywhere. Give us somebody to call."

Somebody to call. Wilson tried to think of somebody. The only clear center to his thoughts right now was Sandra and the child; everything else was distorted by the scotch. Think. Who did he usually call?

House came to mind, but that was immediately followed by the memory that House was saving his son's life. Hopefully. Definitely didn't need to distract House.

Sandra. He shrank inside, remembering the several times he had called her to haul him out of a bar. But she was in the hospital and had just had surgery.

A drunk and flickering lightbulb went off, and Wilson pulled out his wallet, trying to find a card, but his eyes weren't cooperating. He offered the wallet to the bartender. "There's card there. Sponsor. 'm in AA." He could feel the sympathy along with condemnation in all of the surrounding eyes as the bartender took his wallet, found the card, and called from the bar phone.

Yes, what the hell did he think he was doing? He needed to get back to his family. He heard the bartender as if at a distance, telling his sponsor that there was a James Wilson in the bar who needed a ride home. The words were muffled. Only Sandra and the child were clear.

The wallet was returned to him, minus enough for his bill. "Okay, buddy, he's coming. You sit over there and wait for him and stay quiet, okay? And you're not getting any more drinks." The bouncer guided him over to an empty slot, and Wilson sat there waiting, watching warily in case the blond resumed her attentions, but she had melted away at the mention of AA, as if the society might be contagious. Good. She couldn't hold a candle to Sandra, anyway. Even to Sandra in the hospital bed, pale and still under anesthesia. Even then, she was beautiful.

Lost in thought, he didn't see his sponsor until the man appeared right in front of him. "Come on, James. Time to go." There was no judgment, no condemnation in the tone, just deep sadness.

Wilson stood up eagerly and wavered on his feet, and the other man steadied him. "Got to get back to her," he said. "Hoshpital. I left her there, ran 'way. 'm an idiot. Got to tell her I'm an idiot." He started for the door, and his sponsor kept a much-needed stabilizing hand on his arm.

"James, I think you'd better sleep this off before you try explaining anything. If you tried right now, you wouldn't be helping your case much."

Wilson shook his head and wobbled again. Damn it. He could tell now how thoroughly drunk he was, knew on some level that the man was right. He couldn't show up at the hospital like this. But he needed to be there for her, for _them_.

"Come on." They were outside now, and the other man was tucking him into the passenger's seat of his car. "Trust me, James, never try to explain things to a woman while you're drunk. Been there, done that myself. It doesn't work."

Wilson stared through the windshield as his sponsor went around to the driver's side and got in. "I'm an idiot," he repeated. "Coward. Got to tell her."

"Don't tell her right now. You couldn't hide your condition at the moment, and it would make her mad. Tell her tomorrow once you're sober." The car started, and Wilson slumped back against the seat in defeat. "Do you want me to call and give her a message?"

She would be sleeping off the anesthesia tonight, anyway, and no, he didn't want her to get a message that her boyfriend was too drunk to even talk to her. He needed to apologize in person. "No," he said mournfully. His sponsor took one hand off the wheel and reached over to put it on his arm, silent sympathy and contact. Wilson closed his eyes.

He never thought about checking the switched-off cell phone.


	22. Chapter 22

Didn't mean to break up Cuddy's section, but this short bite is as much as I had time to give you right now. Small bites make things last longer, though. :) And there are very significant hints in this little package related to Cuddy's frame of mind and motives for her actions at the moment. Cuddy's night part two in the next chapter, and if you thought House's messages to Wilson were getting a little sharp at the end, wait until you hear hers. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Wednesday night was a long and difficult one for Cuddy.

She had known the instant the words were past her lips that that was the wrong thing to say. Not that she'd meant it like _that_, of course. Nobody could have possibly been expected to take what House had and be able to deal with it alone. She was still amazed that he had survived his childhood at all and hadn't either killed himself or truly lost his mind. But comparing 15 years of pretty much daily extreme abuse to one night of being held hostage for a few minutes and surviving without a scratch was absurd. Of _course_ he had needed professional therapy, and she was very proud of him for his efforts. But the fact remained that she herself didn't. Last night was over. To go running to a psychiatrist for any little ripple in life was completely unnecessary; it was just his own great progress with Jensen that made him try to extend that suggestion to her.

She was indeed under a lot of administrative stress right now with the President in the hospital as a patient, as she'd said. That stress combined with disbelief at his suggestion, at his implied comparison of his traumatic experiences and hers, which were not merely apples and oranges but 747s and oranges, had put the sharp edge on her tone. Too late, she realized how that must have sounded to him, but the words could not be called back.

Then while she was still fumbling for adequate words, trying to apologize and think how to communicate that it was the invalid _comparison_ of the two of them that had annoyed her, not any perceived failure to cope on his part, Wilson's son had gone into distress. There was no question that House had to go, of course. Not only had he promised, but this was his best friend's child. She would have to try to repair the unintentional damage she'd done later.

Cuddy slowly sank back down on the couch in her office after he had left, looking from the picture on her cell phone to the original on the wall. The trouble with House having to leave right then was that his mind never stopped. He would chew on her statement and run thin slices of it like a CT scan all night, even while working the medical case, and the longer the misunderstanding went, the larger it would grow. But what else could she have done then but tell him to go on? Wilson and Sandra, _their_ family, needed him. Family was important, and a physical, medical threat to a family took priority.

_You'll never see your family again_.

She shivered and looked from one picture to another. The gunman had been wrong. They were fine and were right there for her to look at. The girls were safe with Marina, and House was off diagnosing in the hospital with the only physical threat to him tonight being exhaustion.

Her pulse abruptly shifted gears. What if that wasn't the only physical threat in the hospital tonight? What if there was another gunman who had walked in? What if he had intercepted House? It wasn't just last night; she _really_ needed to look into improving security. There had been previous failures, and House had even been the target before. Aside from the President, who was only a temporary presence, House was easily the most likely candidate in PPTH for an attack. He had nearly _died_. She shivered again as she remembered seeing him in the ER, pale and bleeding heavily after he had been shot.

She rocketed up to her feet, then looked at the clock with a sigh. She really didn't have time to go make sure he was safe. Marina would be expecting her at home, and per House, Marina was already annoyed at her. Marina, who kept the girls safe. Cuddy still thought that the nanny was just being touchy and overreacting to a few calls today, but House was right; they could not afford to lose her. Cuddy needed to get home on time tonight and apologize, even if she thought it wasn't really necessary. She'd have to tread more carefully from now on with Marina, who, unlike hospital security, had never let Cuddy down and allowed a threat to enter.

Reluctantly, she picked up her purse. She would at least take a few minutes to get him a sandwich and leave it with a note in his office. Not that a note was anywhere near adequate, but it was a start. The sandwich was also quite necessary; she was sure he wouldn't think to eat tonight unless he had a meal appear right under his nose. Even then, it would be a close vote. She headed for the cafeteria, noting the routine evening crowd around her. Family, visitors, all going about their day. No one looked like a threat.

But neither had the gunman. And House, focused on his cases, wouldn't be thinking of a threat if he encountered somebody. Even though he was the one who had suffered most by hospital security failures in the past, he wouldn't be suspicious. She was once again overwhelmed at his courage, a courage that she had never fully realized before they got together. She definitely didn't blame him for needing therapy; _anybody_ would have, given his past.

She delivered the sandwich, placing it on his chair where he was sure to find it, then went through about five mental rough drafts of the note before writing the final version down, still feeling unsatisfied with it. Once that was in place, she looked at her watch again and gave up her last hope of having time to go check on him. She had to get home. She pulled out the cell phone for another look at her family, then reluctantly headed for the elevator.

The security officer now stationed by the main doors gave her a pleasant nod as she walked past him. "Good night, Dr. Cuddy."

She whirled on him with unexpected viciousness, and he recoiled from the burning intensity of her gaze. "You make _sure_ you do your job tonight, or you'll have me to answer to."

By the time he had recovered and reminded himself that she was just on edge after last night, she was already out the doors, head high, her heels clicking briskly toward her car.


	23. Chapter 23

Getting the girls to bed almost reminded Cuddy of the board meeting.

She should have expected greater than usual difficulty, of course. Whenever House had to work late and didn't come home, they were always a little more restless, asking (especially Rachel) when he would come, over and over as only a 2-year-old (or a board of a hospital) could rehash things, as if the facts might have changed since last asking just a minute ago. It didn't help that Cuddy's best answer on such occasions was, "I don't know." House might have lightning strike in 30 minutes or in 8 hours. There was simply no predicting, and neither daughter found that an acceptable answer. House did always try to give them some time on his long cases, popping in even if just for a few minutes to see his daughters, and afterward, once he was rested up, there would be a special treat, a trip to the park or the zoo or a concert on his piano, some extra attention to try to compensate for his absence.

Yes, Cuddy should have expected it. But still, they seemed worse than usual tonight, even Abby restless and cranky, and Cuddy herself was already ruffled. Which, of course, was due to Marina. Cuddy had swallowed her pride and her conviction and apologized nicely, using the same tone she did when softening up donors. Had this been a financial ploy, she didn't think the check at the end would have been too much, as Marina looked like she wasn't sure of the sincerity herself. But the nanny had accepted it and gone home, leaving an unsettled Cuddy with two restless girls who seemed only to want their father tonight. Through dinner, bath time, book reading, and then bed, the evening had to be administrated almost like her hospital, and when the girls _finally_ were asleep, Cuddy gave a sigh of relief. She tucked them in, watched them for a few minutes, then left the nursery to set the security system.

Security. She hoped House was okay at the hospital, that nobody else had made it past the defenses, no presidential would-be assassins or even disgruntled former patients. Surely somebody would have called her if something had happened to him. And had he found her note (and sandwich)? Was he digesting both? Cuddy ran a bubble bath to relax herself but didn't get in once it was filled. Instead, she simply let the water drain back out, then went to the kitchen, switching on the monitor to keep an ear on the girls, and scrubbed out all the cabinets. That was a project she'd been meaning to do for months, removing the dishes and really washing each shelf. Might as well make use of the time. She did keep her cell phone with her so she could check messages easily - and look at the family picture periodically as she worked.

He finally called just as the shelves were finished, and she pounced on the phone, glaring at Belle on the way. The white cat had stayed just outside Cuddy's range tonight but kept watching her, as if running feline lab tests. It was annoying. Cuddy refused to be diagnosed by a cat. "Greg?"

There was a several-second delay before his voice came. "Hi." He sounded troubled, stressed, and tired. Great. She once again wished she could retract her earlier statement and take time to phrase the point better.

"Did you find the note?" she asked anxiously.

"Yes, I did. And the sandwich."

"I mean it, Greg. I'm just stressed out today from the President's case, but I shouldn't have said that." There was no polishing up a donor similarity here; her tone was pure sincerity. He _had_ to understand that she hadn't meant that the way it came across.

Again there was a pause, and when he spoke, he changed the subject entirely. "Got the diagnosis on the kid."

Cuddy gave a mental sigh, but she let him dodge and didn't push the point. Obviously, he did not want to talk about their earlier confrontation tonight. At least he was talking to her at all. "Already? What's wrong? How's he doing?" Her concern for Wilson and Sandra's child, even if less than her concern for House, was definitely real. Their family. She knew how worried both of them had been; they must have been frantic on the way to surgery, only knowing there was indeed a problem but not knowing exact details yet.

"He's got a congenital diaphragmatic hernia. His abdomen went up into his chest cavity to keep it company. Operation to fix it, and he's probably going to be okay. There can be other associated problems, but we aren't finding any so far."

That sounded fixable, even if serious. "Good. So it wasn't HSV2?"

"I don't think so," he answered. "I'm going to run the test myself, keep it more private that way. But I'm just not seeing that so far."

"Wilson must be relieved." She heard his sigh. "Greg? Have you had a chance to tell Wilson?"

"Not yet, but it's sure not for lack of trying. He's left the hospital, and he's not answering his cell phone."

Cuddy went from 0 (well, from 45) to 100 in 0.8 seconds. "He _left _the _hospital_? Without knowing anything about his child? Without even staying with Sandra?" He had walked out on his _family_? Just _walked out_? _Voluntarily_ turned his back on them?

"Looks that way. I've searched everywhere he might be, and the phone just goes to voice mail. Last I saw him, the kid had just been born and gone into respiratory distress. I kind of had my hands full for a while after that, but none of the nurses have seen him, either. Sure looks like he abandoned ship." House sounded concerned.

Cuddy wasn't concerned, at least not about Wilson. She was furious. "Sometimes I wonder why women have put up with him."

"Most of them hit their limit sooner or later." He suddenly seemed completely worn out, as if even holding the phone were an effort.

"Are you okay, Greg?" Concern for him easily knocked Wilson out of the spotlight of her mind for the moment.

"Just tired. I'm probably going to stay here tonight. I want to run that test, and after hours in the lab is a great time to keep it off the record. I also told the nurses to page me when Sandra wakes up and is with it enough for some medical information. _Somebody_ needs to talk to her about the kid."

Yes, somebody needed to. No question whose role that should have been, either. But they couldn't leave Sandra completely adrift tonight just because Wilson was being a jackass. She would be full of questions, and she deserved answers, both about the child's condition and about Wilson's absence. "Of course. Although _Wilson_ should have been there for that. Idiot. Get some sleep in your chair, Greg. You sound worn out. Did you eat the sandwich?"

"Yes, I did," he assured her. "Give the girls a kiss for me, okay?"

"I will." Carefully and without waking them up. She'd had enough trouble getting them to bed in the first place. "I'll see you in the morning. _I love you_, Greg." She tried to put all the conviction she felt on the last words.

Brief silence, but then he returned them. "Love you, too. Good night, Lisa."

"Good night, Greg." She hung up, then sat down on the couch, her mind going at a gallop.

House at least was all right, but she could not believe Wilson's actions. Didn't he realize what a family was? Didn't he realize that it was possible involuntarily to lose them? How could he just choose to abandon them as casually as tossing something in the trash, no outside gunman required? He hadn't even stayed around to tell her goodbye or to hear anything about his son's condition. Cuddy whipped her cell phone out again and called Wilson's cell, and as House had reported, it went straight to voice mail.

Her tone would have frozen lava. "Wilson, you jackass. So you just decided to leave? Just walked out on them? Don't you know what a family means? Of course, it's not like you haven't cut and run before. Just bail out when the going gets tough. I know you told Greg you never were friends, but what you just did to Sandra is even worse." Her tone was rising. "Don't you realize you could _lose_ them, any day, any moment? But you don't even want to stick around for that chance. You didn't even have the courage to wait until she was awake to tell her goodbye. You artificial, smooth-talking, superficial, cheating son-of-a-bitch. You don't _deserve_ a family or a good relationship. If you have a scrap of manhood in you, get the hell back to the hospital and at least look her in the eye while you tell her you're bailing out. She at least gets closure that way, not to mention that it would make full legal custody of _her_ son easier." Cuddy was having trouble breathing by the end of that diatribe, and she stabbed end so hard that she hurt her finger.

Belle had watched this from a safe distance with her head tilted to one side, and now she jumped up on a bookcase, out of range, and gave a questioning meow. "Oh, shut up," Cuddy snapped. "He deserved every bit of that."

On top of everything, Wilson had prevented House from coming home tonight after the quick diagnosis on the case, as Sandra needed somebody on her side at the hospital. Cuddy shook her head sharply. He ought to be condemned to wear a scarlet C on his chest for the rest of his life, as a warning to all women of the world that he was operating under false pretenses. Or a Q, for quitter. She could probably think up a whole alphabet if she put her mind to it, but her thoughts quickly returned to the two people left picking up his pieces at the hospital. Poor Sandra. Poor Greg.

At least Cuddy was trying to fix her errors of tonight, and at least hers were unintentional.

She got up finally and went to the nursery, checking on the girls and delivering the promised kiss from House. Weary, worried, and wishing she were with him, she headed for bed.

And lay there. The empty other side of the bed gaped like a chasm next to her, as if she were precariously balanced on the edge and about to go into free fall in some bottomless pit below. She snapped the light back on and read for an hour, then switched it off in determination. She lay there in the dark for another full hour before finally falling asleep, only to come gasping back to the surface a little later. She had dreamed that the gunman had her, only when she led him to the elevator, House was in the car already, and none of Cuddy's warnings about the gun or the gunman reached him. Unsuspecting, he had been shot down in cold blood while she watched. Cuddy quickly turned the light back on, frantically checking her cell phone. No messages.

He's okay, she told herself. Someone would have called if he weren't. It wasn't like a shooting would be unnoticed; even after hours, there were plenty of people there.

Unless they called the main line instead. She sprang out of bed and went to check the answering machine in the living room. No, no messages. She checked on the girls, then climbed back in bed, trying his side just to feel closer to him. It didn't work. She finally ended up in the rocking chair in the nursery, watching the girls sleep, looking occasionally at the picture on the cell phone. She was just drifting off warily into sleep again when the phone chirped, and she snapped back wide awake instantly, nearly dropping it in her urgency to check the screen.

It was a text from House. _Sandra awake. Talked to her. Jr. hanging on. No word from Wilson._

Cuddy was lost for a minute both in relief at hearing from him and raw anger still at Wilson. Poor Sandra. At least she would have her child. Cuddy considered texting back, but she didn't want to sound awake to House, afraid he'd try to further diagnose some greater significance to one night of restless sleep. Also, she was afraid he'd try to come home if he thought she was awake waiting for him, and she knew he'd be even more worn out after that emotionally-charged conversation with Sandra. Poor House. Dealing with emotions was never his forte, though Jensen was helping, but Cuddy was proud of the way he had automatically stepped up tonight, filling the role he should not have been the one to fill. But after that talk, he might well be too tired to drive home safely at - she looked at her watch - 3:00 a.m. He was better off in his Eames chair for the rest of the night.

While she was still thinking, the phone chirped again. _Good night, Lisa._

She smiled, looking at the message, then again at the picture. "Good night, Greg," she said softly.

She stayed in the rocking chair, watching the girls, hearing them breathing, and eventually, she slid back into restless sleep.


	24. Chapter 24

House snapped awake, sweating and breathing heavily. The lamp cast a dim glow across the office, and he quickly oriented himself. The note from Cuddy lay next to his bad leg; apparently, his fingers had relaxed in sleep and dropped it.

He slowly sat up, picking up the note again, and moved his legs over, then ran a hand across his face. Four and a half hours of sleep total since Tuesday morning weren't nearly enough, and he knew it, but it was the dream that he was feeling more at the moment. That one had not only been about John but had had Cuddy as an audience, watching in the background, her face a critique of how he should have handled things better. House turned the note in his fingers like a thinking ball, then reread it. _All my love_. That and her earlier statement in the office held a tug-of war in his mind.

It was House himself who broke the struggle, standing up with a sudden surge of anger, not at Cuddy but at himself. He was _not_ going to get into another acute cycle of nightmares, damn it. There were plenty of obstacles at the moment demanding his attention during wakefulness; he didn't need his subconscious tossing more into the mix. He went over to his desk, where he kept an extra bottle of the sleeping pills. The main bottle, of course, was at home. House turned the orange container in his hand, feeling the even roundness of it, then checked the cell phone and his pager. No word from either Wilson or the OB nurses.

Wilson. Concern and anger both flooded through him. He wished he knew where his friend was and if he was all right, but he'd also like to hit Wilson square in the jaw at the moment. Maybe it would knock some sense into that head. The situation wasn't irretrievable yet, but the longer Wilson was MIA, the closer it came to being so.

The shrill tone sounded as if in mocking answer to his thoughts. In desperate hope, he looked at the cell phone first, but he already knew it was the pager. Yes, the night charge nurse on OB was informing him as requested that Sandra was fully awake now.

House sat down in his desk chair with a sigh. He did not want to do this. He _really_ did not want to do this, but she deserved some answers, at least about her child. He knew she wouldn't let him off with half a report, though. He picked up the cell phone again and called Wilson's cell, and predictably, it went to voice mail. "Wilson, this is your last chance for me to cover for you. Sandra's awake, and I'm heading down there to talk to her. It should be you doing this. It will take me a few minutes to get there; if you call me by the time I get down there and tell me you're on the way, I'll stall somehow." He hesitated as if waiting for the voice mail itself to answer him, then slowly hit end. He called down to the NICU just to make sure there was no change for the worse in the kid's status, then sat in his office and counted down five minutes. Wilson did not call back. With another sigh, House hauled himself up to his feet, leg protesting all the way, gulped down two Vicodin dry, and limped out of the office.

(H/C)

The first two times Sandra had woken up briefly, the anesthesia had still been fogging her mind, but she had realized even through it that she was alone. She stayed awake long enough the second time to hit the call button and mumble out two anxious questions when the nurse arrived, but the nurse had only briefly answered one of them - the child was alive and was being treated in NICU. Sandra had been pulled back down into sleep, fighting it all the way, before she could demand further details.

The third time she woke up, she felt much clearer. As a consequence, of course, she was also more aware of the pain now, a deep if chemically muted ache across her abdomen. She was still alone. She gave an imperative stab at the call button, then ran one hand gently across the dressing as she waited. Part of her even through the anxiety relished the novelty of being able to see her feet again, right down there at the end of the bed.

The nurse arrived promptly. "Where is James? How's the baby?" Sandra demanded. Maybe he had just gone to the bathroom or out to find some coffee. All three times, her mind added skeptically. If they had timing like that, they needed to buy more lottery tickets.

The nurse put a hand on her arm. Not one of the ICU nurses Sandra worked with every day, but of course, she knew most of the hospital nurses, saw them around the hospital and in the locker room. "Dr. House left a message to page him as soon as you felt like talking. I'll go page him right now."

_House_ had left a message to be paged? She made a quick mental scramble trying to think of _any_ positive interpretation of that and drew a complete blank. "House? What's going on?" The lack of information along with the sympathetic hand on her arm were multiplying her fears.

"I'll go page him right now, Sandra. He'll tell you everything." The nurse gave her arm a squeeze.

Sandra nodded slowly, and the nurse left the room. Apparently, nobody was going to tell her much of anything until House did. Was the child dead? No, she didn't think so. The sympathy in the nurse's eyes didn't have quite _that_ look. _That_ look was unmistakable. You could tell even in the locker room when an OB nurse had dealt with the parents of a dead child on her shift that day. There was a special bitterness to it, recognition of the unfairness of a woman enduring all those months of pregnancy, only to have the reward for it snatched permanently away at the last moment.

Was _Wilson_ dead? Or at least hurt? Had he been in an accident somehow? What kind of accident could he have gotten into in the hospital? Her last memory of him was him giving her hand a final squeeze as she was taken to surgery, of his words, "It will be all right." Not that he had believed it right then much more than she had. They'd both been terrified. But at least he had _been _there.

The thought of him in an accident was worrying, but she found a large part of her _hoping_ that was it. The alternative was even worse.

Several eternal minutes later, House limped into the room. He looked like death warmed over. Sandra studied his expression for clues even while demanding details before he'd reached the bed. "House, what's going on? What about the baby? Where's James?"

House came up to the side of the bed, putting both hands awkwardly on the railing and shifting his weight slightly onto his good leg. He did not sit down. "The kid has a congenital diaphragmatic hernia. He does _not_ have HSV2. I ran the test twice."

"Congenital diaphragmatic hernia?" Her mind scrambled through her medical courses. "A hole in the diaphragm?"

He nodded. "The abdominal organs crawl up into the chest cavity. Once the kid has to breathe on his own out of the uterus, he can't, because the lungs don't have enough room to expand."

"So they need to sort things back out?" she asked.

"Right. It's a pretty major operation, but it's curative. There's a chance for other congenital defects along with it, but we're not finding any so far. Sent out a full set of genetic tests, of course, and those will take a while, but I've also checked in other ways for the main suspects. Nothing I'm seeing. I really think he'll be okay once he's reassembled a bit. He's down in the NICU on the ventilator. Once he's fairly stable, they'll take him to surgery, and he's doing pretty well otherwise. I just called down for the latest update. He'll probably go to surgery sometime today."

She let some small part of the tension go. "This is fixable?"

"Yes," House assured her. "He might have asthma or GERD for a while, but without other congenital defects, it's all treatable. I think he'll be fine. He'll be out of here and home with you in a lot less time than Abby took."

"And no HSV2."

"Nope. He got a bad roll of the genetic dice somewhere, but no HSV2."

"This is congenital? I hadn't heard of anybody in the family with it."

"Yes, it's congenital, but it's not as simple as straight line, generation to generation. They might not have even known. People used to just expect to lose a few babies here and there, and back in the days of home births, they wouldn't necessarily know why. Any kid with this who was born outside of a major hospital would die before he could ever get to one. They could have just had a funeral and went on."

"I know my grandparents lost one at birth. They never said why, not that my parents remembered at least."

The conversation ran down to awkward silence for a minute. She didn't really want to ask, and she could tell he didn't really want to tell her, but she had to know. Part of her already knew, though. There had been no simple accident to explain things; he wouldn't have stalled on that. "House, _where_ is James?"

House looked away, and his hands tightened to white knuckles on the bed rails. He flinched as he shifted his weight back onto the right leg. "I don't know."

She closed her eyes briefly against the impact, then opened them. Now she understood the sympathy in the OB nurse's eyes and hands. "He left?"

"I've searched the hospital. Left at least 20 messages on his cell phone tonight, even tried his home number once. None of the nurses here have seen him since you came back from surgery. He was in the observation room watching, but when the kid was having trouble breathing after delivery, he told me to go on and help him. That's the last I've heard from him."

He _left_. No note, no word, no message. Just left. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

House continued. "I forged his signature on the surgical permit earlier tonight, by the way. The pediatric thoracic surgeon was all set to go talk to him himself, so I said I would." She nodded silently. Forgery was the last of her concerns, and she appreciated the motive. He had been giving his friend a chance still. His friend hadn't taken it.

The silence extended for another few minutes before House suddenly moved. Awkwardly, he reached out and brushed her hand lightly with his fingers, not grasping it, nearly missing making contact at all. "I'll be up in my office, Sandra."

She was looking out the window into the darkness, but she looked back toward him then. "Thank you for tonight, House." For the child and for trying to cover for Wilson.

He gave a wordless nod, but he was already heading for the door, his limp worse than usual but also a lot faster than when he had entered. House had hit the limit for now. She let him escape, impressed that he had lasted as far as he had.

A minute later, the nurse returned. "Are you okay, Sandra? Can I get you anything?"

"A glass of water?" she asked, not replying to the first question. The nurse quickly poured her one and held it out easily within reach so Sandra wouldn't have to twist toward the nightstand. Sandra took a few long swallows through the straw, then let it go. "You haven't seen James at _all_ since the surgery?" she asked.

The nurse shook her head. She hadn't, and that fact was already the talk of the nursing station tonight. Nobody had expected that of the kind, considerate Dr. Wilson. "No, I haven't. He hasn't been up here all night. I'm sorry."

Sandra nodded slowly. "Thank you for the water. I think I'd like to be alone now." She was alone, of course. Not totally; House had been there. She still had a support system, and she knew they would help her, and she'd need it. But in a way they could never fill, she and her son were now alone.

The nurse reached out to pull the blanket up a bit, then gave her shoulder a pat. "All right. Just call us if you need anything." She left the room.

Sandra lay there in bed. Crying hurt, her stitched abdomen throbbing along with her soul. Somehow, that seemed appropriate.

(H/C)

House arrived back at his office and all but fell into the Eames chair after picking up the bottle of sleeping pills from the desk drawer.

He couldn't take any more tonight. He knew he should go home, but he simply couldn't take one more thing tonight. He pulled out the cell phone and called Wilson again, but this time, he hung up without leaving a message when he got the recording. There was nothing left to say. He stared at the blank screen, his mind a beehive of concern and annoyance. Cuddy, Wilson, Sandra. Add Mark and Jensen in just for spice. The President at least was merely a medical case, though an increasingly interesting one, but everything else pressed in on him.

If he went home, Cuddy would probably want to resume explaining and clarifying that conversation in her office, and he simply had no energy left to talk to her. Guilt stabbed at him as he remembered last night, the way that she had been near attached to him and had become restless in sleep whenever he moved away to check on the girls. She probably wasn't sleeping well tonight either. He ought to at least check in. He sent a brief update text, then waited a few minutes.

No reply. Either she had managed to get to sleep, or she was denying that she wasn't. House knew he was being a coward staying up here at the moment. In fact, he felt his father try to remind him of that fact, but at least he wasn't being Wilson and totally bailing out. _Damn it, Wilson, where are you_?

He opened the bottle of sleeping pills, taking just the prescribed amount, no more. Jensen had the dose cut down enough now that it wouldn't knock him out, but it would give him a good shove off into rest, and he knew that physically, he had to get some. He felt like the casualty of a battle after the events of the last day, walking wounded off the field with the knowledge heavy across both shoulders that it had only been one battle, not the war, and that another would follow tomorrow. He did pick up the cell phone again for one more message, reassurance to himself and hopefully to her that he wasn't quitting the game, even if he was checking out for the next few hours. _Good night, Lisa_.

He put his cell phone and pager, both still turned on, on the shelf next to him where he would hear any urgent summons, and then he gripped Cuddy's note firmly in both hands, completely capturing it, this time not planning on losing his grip even in sleep. Battered and worried, he closed his eyes and, at least for a while, let himself rest.


	25. Chapter 25

Short update. Next chapter is longer, and in it, we return to the cases. Also, Wilson wakes up with a major headache in more ways than one.

(H/C)

Just before 7:00, Cuddy came surging into the office. She stopped quickly once through the door and just stood there, watching House breathe. He was asleep in his chair, looking older and tired - these long nights with patients were hard on him, she knew - but he wasn't hurt. No nighttime attacks. Nothing unexpected. He was safe.

She let out her breath in a relieved whoosh. She had left home as soon as Marina had gotten there this morning, not as much to avoid the nanny as that she _had_ to verify with her own eyes that House was okay after that interminable night of . . . no, not nightmares. She didn't have nightmares. Still, she hadn't slept well. She did efficiently make sure that her early departure didn't diminish her usual morning time with the girls by simply getting them up early. They could easily catch up with a nap later.

Cuddy watched him. She had thought about bringing in some Starbucks, but she had driven right by the shop, unable to turn in and delay her arrival at PPTH. Now, she reluctantly turned away after a few minutes and went into the conference room, starting coffee there as the next best morning offering. The team would be in before too long, and she wanted to talk to House first. After starting the coffee, she looked at the whiteboard, which had reverted to its usual style. Wilson, Jr., had a double bar at the bottom and CDH written below that. No mention anywhere on this public list of HSV2, and Cuddy gritted her teeth. House was protecting Wilson, who didn't deserve any protection. Sandra and the child did, though. She made herself put the marker she had snatched up back down in the tray. Mark and the President, both with growing lists of symptoms. Mark's were longer, but the President had more than he had yesterday. She sighed, again feeling the administrative stress of the moment.

Back into the office to watch House some more while the coffee finished. He really did look worn out, and she tossed a few more mental epithets at Wilson, who had made last night so much harder on him. She frowned suddenly, noticing a detail she'd missed to this point. House had both hands absolutely clenched around something, gripping it so tightly even in sleep that she couldn't see what it was. She reached out and tried to pry a finger loose to get a glimpse, and he reacted instantly, pulling away, hands tightening even more as he gave a mumble of protest. Cuddy backed off a step and left him alone. She didn't want to disturb his last few minutes of sleep.

Five minutes later, the coffee ready, she returned to the conference room for a cup for each of them, then went back into the office. Kneeling down next to the chair and setting the cups down, she reached out and stroked the side of his face gently. "Greg?" He didn't react at first, and she increased the pressure and the volume. She hated waking him up, but the team was coming in, and then he would be busy with the patients all day. This was her chance. "Greg? Wake up, love."

His eyelids flickered, then snapped open suddenly, as if realizing that the voice was real, not a dream. "Good morning," she said, and she leaned in for a kiss.

"Morning," he replied a minute later. He shoved whatever he was clutching into his pocket, then slowly sat up and moved his leg over, and she offered the coffee. He took it gratefully and chugged down half the cup without even a flinch at the temperature.

"Any word from Wilson?"

He didn't think so, but he reached over to check his cell phone just to be sure. Nothing. "No."

"How did Sandra take it?" Cuddy asked.

"How would you expect? She was on the edge of crying when I left." House took another gulp of coffee, and one hand massaged his leg. Cuddy moved the hand over and started working on the thigh herself, and he let go. She was much better at that than he was.

"Greg," she started. "About last night." She felt him tense up sharply under her hands, and she quickly continued. "I did _not_ mean it like that. I was stressed out from the President's case, and I wasn't thinking before I spoke. Of course you needed help, and Jensen's been worth his weight in gold. Nobody could have dealt with that alone. Most people wouldn't have survived it half as well as you did."

He sighed, then pushed on to the elephant in the room. "But you still don't think you need help yourself."

"No, I don't. It's ridiculous to compare what you went through with five unpleasant minutes for me Tuesday night."

"_Unpleasant minutes_? You make it sound like a board meeting." She flinched. "Lisa, he could have killed you. It's okay to be scared by that."

She let go of his thigh and stood up, taking a quick turn of the office. "I am _not_ scared. Yes, it was a bad experience, but it was only a few minutes, and nothing happened."

"Other than being held hostage and then seeing him gunned down in front of you."

"Better him than the President. The Secret Service was doing their jobs."

House sighed. He still remembered the tight fear in her voice on the cell phone during her surreptitious call. She had been terrified, and she was still absolutely locked down against admitting that fact. She also looked like she'd definitely had trouble sleeping. "I still think it would be a good idea to talk to someone. You'd recommend it for any employee who went through that."

Cuddy came back to face him. "I do _not_ need therapy," she said, almost conversationally, just stating a fact. "I realize you are sold on it, and you should be, but it isn't the answer for everyone, and minor, short things that didn't hurt a person can't be compared with what your father did."

"So this morning, _I'm_ screwed up, which is fine, but anybody who logged less hours than me isn't?" House was floundering, trying to think of any approach that would work. He was about ready to have her kidnapped and chained to a psychiatrist's couch, but no, it had to be voluntary on her part, or the whole process would be worse than just a waste of time. How on earth to make her concede the point and believe it?

The conference room door opened right then, and Kutner entered, full of morning enthusiasm. He saw them and turned to the office. "Good morning!"

House sighed again and stood up. "Kutner, check on the President. I'll call the nurse's station, but if Mark and Jr. are stable at the moment, I'm going home for an hour to take a shower, change clothes, and at least say hi to the girls."

"Junior?" Kutner looked at the whiteboard. "Hey, Wilson's kid was born. CDH, huh? Anything else genetically so far?"

"Doesn't look like it. He apparently lucked into the single serving of congenital defects instead of the variety pack. He'll be okay."

"I'll have to tell Wilson congratulations." Kutner paused, looking at their expressions. "Is something else wrong?"

"If you see Wilson, _before_ you tell him congratulations, tell him I want to see him in my office," Cuddy hissed, venom dripping from her words. Kutner blinked and wisely did not ask for further details.

"President," House reminded him. Kutner nodded and turned away. No doubt Foreman and Taub would be here any minute. House called the ICU nursing station for an update on Mark, then hung up. "Mark's not doing well, but nothing acutely new at the moment, just the progressive slide. I'll be back in an hour." He really did need a shower and clothes, and he wanted to see the girls for a minute. He had a feeling today would be another long day medically - and otherwise.

Cuddy nodded, realizing that the chance for privacy was past. At least she had gotten her chance to apologize, and none of the rest of this conversation needed to be continued. "Drive carefully, Greg."

His shoulders stiffened as he walked out of the office. Drive _carefully_? She was now questioning not only his work ethic but his driving? He'd been far more careful even with the motorcycle since he had a family. He limped on toward the elevator.

Back in the suite, Cuddy collected his cup and hers and carefully washed them and put them neatly away.

(H/C)

Sandra was picking disinterestedly at her breakfast tray when the pediatric thoracic surgeon came in. "Good morning," he greeted her, then looked around. "Where's Dr. Wilson?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Sandra said. She put her fork down. "How's the baby?"

The doctor was taken aback at her tone, as well as the statement itself. "Dr. House talked to him last night about the surgery."

Ah yes, the forged consent. "I know," Sandra lied. No point in getting House in trouble. "How's the baby?" she repeated.

He switched quickly into professional mode, stuffing down hospital curiosity. Wilson had gone AWOL? _Wilson_? "The baby is doing fine. He's perfectly stable on the ventilator. Did Dr. House explain to you what CDH is?"

Sandra nodded. "The organs are all up in the chest cavity instead of in the abdomen, and they compress the lungs."

"Right, but fortunately, with your son, they aren't _all_ up in the chest cavity. There are varying levels of severity of this, depending on how much is misplaced and also on how long it's been misplaced. If the lungs were compressed from their early development, for instance, that's worse than if they were compressed at a later stage. Your son has what I would call a moderate case. The liver, stomach, and a small part of the small intestine are up through the hole, but there are still some organs remaining down in the abdomen. Also, the fact that he _was_ giving a really good initial effort to breathe on his own, if inadequate, is good. That tells us that the migration probably occurred later along the course of development and hasn't been there from the beginning. His lungs are probably somewhat underdeveloped, but it could be worse." He paused to make sure she understood. He knew she was a nurse herself, and Wilson was a doctor, after all.

Sandra was clearly following him. "So you think there's a pretty good prognosis in this case?"

"Yes, I do. Of course, there is a chance for other congenital defects, but Dr. House and the neonatologist haven't found any so far. First, the surgery. I'll resort the organs out into the correct places and then stitch up the hole in the diaphragm. Next, he'll be taken back to NICU and kept there while his lungs get a chance to recover and to finish whatever development they lack. We'll have him on meds to help that process, of course. He seems to be healthy otherwise for a 35-week delivery, and he's a good size. I think he'll do fine. He has a lot better chance than an extreme preemie would."

Sandra relaxed slightly. "When do you think you'll do surgery?"

"I'd like to do it this morning. He's stable, and he isn't really going to start improving until the compression is off the lungs."

"Okay. Go ahead with it, then. Just have them send me a message when he goes in and when you're done, okay?"

"Of course. I'll come talk to you myself afterward as soon as I can. I would have liked to talk to the father, too, but I know House already discussed things with him." The surgeon started for the door of the room, then stopped. "One more thing. Does the child have a name? If so, we need it for his records."

Sandra looked down at the half-eaten breakfast. The name they had settled on for their son was Daniel James, but suddenly, she couldn't do it. Daniel had been her father, and she wished he had lived to see his grandson. He would have been here last night if he could have; she had no doubt about that. But James . . .

"You can have more time if you haven't decided yet," the surgeon said.

Sandra lifted her chin almost defiantly, looking back at him. "He does have a name. Daniel Gregory."

The surgeon jotted it down in the chart. "Daniel Gregory. Very nice. I'll talk to you later after the surgery."

"Okay. Thank you." The surgeon left, and Sandra sat there eying the tray for a minute, then pushed it firmly away and closed her eyes.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: Server down today at work. Wish fanfic paid, but at least I'll get something accomplished. Thanks for all the reviews.

(H/C)

By the time House made it up to the ICU to check on Mark, worry and annoyance had momentarily won the battle over tiredness, and he was running on straight adrenaline. Everything at home had been slightly off kilter, the girls' restlessness obviously an extension of Cuddy's last night and this morning. Marina said as much, noting that she had just been getting them settled down when House came in and, of course, disrupted everything again. His daughters had been enthusiastic to see him, making him feel even guiltier about his absence, however necessary (well, mostly necessary), last night. House had wedged in a short piano piece for them, promises to try to do better tonight, and a hurried shower. Marina astonished him after her earlier reproach by passing him a large cup of coffee, just like he liked it, as he hurriedly limped out the door.

He'd returned to PPTH in 1 hour 5 minutes, not bad with obstacles, he thought, but Cuddy was stationed in the lobby at the main reception desk, too obviously killing time and watching for him. She vanished without stopping him as soon as she saw him, but her glance at her watch just as he entered was its own message. She was still harping on making sure he was working. No doubt she'd be around every corner again today, although at least she'd stopped being as vocal about her mission after yesterday's showdown in his office. The supervision annoyed him.

And he still hadn't thought of a way to get her to accept therapy.

House surged into ICU, on a mission, and the staff gave him a wide berth as he headed for Mark's room. Foreman was there, Taub hopefully still in the lab. Mark's temperature was 101.8 now, and he looked like he felt like crap. Still, he was doing his best to defend the besieged fort he'd erected.

"Are you sure you haven't been to any unusual locations recently on the job or been exposed to any different environments?" Foreman asked.

"No," Mark repeated doggedly.

"Have you taken a shower within the last month?" House demanded as he entered the room.

Mark looked absolutely baffled. "Yes, of course, but what on earth does that have to do with anything?"

"Probably nothing," House conceded. "I just wanted to make sure you knew the word." Jensen grinned slightly through the worry.

Mark shook his head and winced slightly at the motion. "I keep telling you, there is _nothing_ odd about the last few weeks. Nothing new anywhere. Same old routine as always."

"Which makes it even more likely that you picked this up at one of the new security system sites, since you hadn't been to those routinely before."

"I am not giving you those addresses," Mark insisted.

House sighed. "You ought to meet the President." He got a mutual confused look from patient and family that time. "Never mind. So, how are you feeling today?"

"I'm . . ." Mark started, and Pam glared at him. "A little achy," he amended. "Like I've got some bug, which I do. Once it runs the course, I'll be -" He broke off with a yelp, quickly stifled. House had picked up his hand, and as Mark was talking, House suddenly put pressure across the joints of the fingers. Mark jumped sharply, snatching the extremity away.

"Yeah, right, a little achy," House noted.

"Do you know what infection this is yet?" Pam asked hopefully.

House shook his head. "It takes time sometimes." He just hoped Mark had enough left to end up with the diagnosis on the right side of the time limit. "I'll do some more research, see if there's anything new that might not be on our current list of tests." As soon as he checked on the President. Speaking of which, "By the way, Mark, have you had sex with anybody except your wife lately?"

"No!" Mark said sharply. "This is ridiculous. I've got some virus, and I'll be fine in a few days."

House looked at Jensen for a silent second opinion. "He is telling the truth there," Jensen confirmed. "The first part, I mean." Pam, House noted, hadn't been worried about that question anyway. Unlike the President's wife, who privately had conceded the possibility even while getting publicly offended.

"We'll keep testing. I'll check back in in a few hours," House said. "Foreman, you and Taub in the lab again today. Try everything you can think of. Try the things you can't think of, too." He turned away, but he heard footsteps hurrying up behind him even before he'd made it out of ICU. He turned to face the psychiatrist.

"I just wanted to tell you," Jensen said softly. "You were asking yesterday about difficulty concentrating. I hadn't noticed any then, but I do this morning. Slight but definitely there." House nodded silently. "He's getting worse," Jensen stated.

It wasn't a question, but House answered it anyway. "Yes, he is. That's the main reason I backed off on those work sites. I still think that's it, but I don't think we have anywhere near time to check all of them out."

Jensen looked back toward the ICU room, worry written clearly across his face. He did not go on to ask House if there was any progress, at least. He knew House was doing his best. He turned back to him. "Thank you," he said.

House shifted his feet, always uncomfortable with gratitude. "Better wait until you actually have something to thank me for."

"I do. He'd be dead already if it weren't for you." Jensen looked at him more closely. "Were you up with one of the other patients last night?" House knew he probably looked worn out. Jensen himself looked more rested today, though still worried. He'd slept better last night with someone to share the sentinel duties over Mark with.

House looked around at the nurses, none of them apparently listening, but still, they were there. "Come here," he urged and turned away without bothering to wait for a response from Jensen.

The ICU waiting room was quiet and empty at the moment. Perfect. House stopped in the middle of the floor and turned to face Jensen. "Wilson's kid was born late yesterday afternoon."

Jensen waited for the other shoe, almost visibly hovering in the air of the room, to drop. "And?" he prompted after a minute.

"He's got CDH." Jensen looked blank. "Never mind," House said impatiently. "No time for anything but the Cliff's Notes version right now. It's a congenital defect. Serious enough, even life-threatening outside of a hospital, but it's _fixable_. I think he'll be okay after surgery. The kid doesn't have HSV2, and there's no association between the two."

Jensen looked relieved. "So it's not because of James?"

"No. I've only had one side of the family history, but he quite possibly got it through Sandra."

"Why have you only had one side of the family history?" Jensen asked, new worry pushing in. House's concern was concerning him.

"Wilson split," House said bluntly. "Nobody's seen him since I did in the observation room of the OR when the kid went into distress."

"And he's not answering calls?"

"Nope." House paced a quick, limping circle. "I hope he's not doing something stupid. I mean, _obviously_, he's doing something stupid, but I hope . . . I'm not sure if he still has a chance at this point anyway."

"Sandra already knows?" Jensen asked. Of course, even allowing for anesthesia, Sandra would have been awake long since.

"Yes. I had the joy of sticking around the hospital all night to talk to her after we got the kid stabilized and diagnosed. By this point, though, I'm sure it's also the hottest topic on the gossip chain. The staff on the OB floor couldn't have missed him not turning up at all since she got back from surgery."

Jensen sighed. As much as House thought he was a burden on the psychiatrist - on pretty much everybody, really - it was _Wilson_ who had given Jensen far more frustration as a patient. A lot of progress had been made on Wilson's tendency to manage others, but regarding his own relationships, he had still balked at truly internalizing everything he had been told, and he had far more smoke and mirrors than House did. Not that Jensen said so in front of House, of course. "Maybe he'll come to his senses and come back," the psychiatrist said.

"I hope so. He sure dug himself a nice hole last night, though." House was still pacing, still keyed up, and while concern for Wilson was definitely real, Jensen knew that wasn't the number one mental topic.

The number one topic wasn't hard to guess. "What about Dr. Cuddy?" he asked.

House came to a stop but on the other side of the room. "She _really_ needs help. But she isn't about to admit that. I tried suggesting therapy."

"What did she say?"

"Well, last night, she said that _she_ wasn't the one who couldn't deal with things herself." Jensen stared at him in disbelief. Even from extreme stress, that was a shot he'd never expected Cuddy to take. "Oh, she apologized this morning already, though, and clarified that she realizes I needed help; it's just that anybody with fewer hours punched on the traumatic experiences clock than me doesn't."

Jensen was silent. House had been looking away, but now he looked back quickly. "So tell me what should I have done," he challenged.

"You're doing great. She obviously has some major issues here, and she isn't going to accept them easily. But _you_ are dealing with things as well as you can. That's good."

"It's not like I had a choice," House pointed out.

"Yes, you did," Jensen said, thinking of Wilson again. House followed the silent thought, and oddly, along with the concern for Wilson, part of him seemed to be reassured by that. He _could_ be doing worse at this. "Just try to get some rest tonight," Jensen continued, changing the subject before House got feeling trapped enough by emotions to dodge himself. "I know the three cases are pushing in right now, but you look worn out. Remember to take care of yourself."

"_Two_ cases," House corrected with a slight smirk. "Solved one of them."

"So you did," Jensen agreed.

Just then a family entered the waiting room, drawing verbal straws for who got to visit first. House slipped back quickly into professional mode. "Got to go check on the - on my other main patient."

"I'll see you later, Dr. House," Jensen called. House exited the ICU rapidly, and Jensen slowly headed back to join his worsening brother.

(H/C)

Server just came up! Wilson will have to take a rain check.


	27. Chapter 27

Wilson very slowly crawled up a long tunnel to consciousness. His head was pounding already, even with his eyes shut. Sunlight was warm against his left cheek, promising more pain in the forecast as soon as he opened them. His thoughts were a blurred tangle, but he resisted wakefulness as long as he could. He'd been dreaming of her, dreaming that they were in bed together again, that he was holding her with his face buried deeply in her hair, just breathing her in. Very nice dream. He didn't want it to end. A vague sensation that he'd been a total jackass hovered around his still mostly asleep thoughts, and he'd much rather stay in her dream arms than have that solidify and have to deal with it.

Sandra. The dream was dissipating faster now, and he tried desperately to clutch it. He remembered the feel of her beside him. He could still feel her arms around him, holding onto him equally with his grasp of her. He could still smell her unique scent.

He _could_ still smell her. Even as the rest of it taunted him and slipped away, the scent remained, growing stronger as he surfaced. Wilson couldn't help opening his eyes hopefully. Maybe it wasn't a dream.

The harsh sunlight stabbed him, and he quickly narrowed his eyes against it, still trying to orient himself. He was back in their bed, in _her_ bed, the bed he hadn't been in since November. He was holding her pillow. She wasn't here, but her scent was.

He closed his eyes again and buried his face in the pillow, drinking in the smell like an alcoholic with his favorite drink.

Like an alcoholic. . .

Abruptly, the memory of last night - well, most of last night. _Enough _of last night - crashed back in a wave that bowled his mind completely over.

_Oh, shit._

Wilson released the pillow and bolted upright quickly. Far too quickly. His stomach did a loop-de-loop worthy of a large roller coaster and then ran completely off the tracks. Fortunately, there was a trash can placed conveniently just beside the bed. Wilson urgently grabbed it, retching until he thought there couldn't possibly be anything left to bring up. This seemed like even more than he'd drunk last night.

Not that he remembered exactly how much he'd drunk last night. He'd lost count after the fourth, and the night after that was a series of increasingly hazy and dissociated memory fragments, but he did have the distinct impression that four hadn't been the end of the line or anywhere near it. On top of Ativan, too. _Idiot._

That paled in the face of greater idiocy, though. The one thing he _did_ remember on through the night was Sandra, that he hadn't been able to forget her, that he didn't _want_ to forget her. He didn't have the choice of running. She and the baby, whatever he'd done, were his family. He had to go back and face the music.

Footsteps approached down the hall, and then his sponsor appeared in the doorway. He quickly crossed to the side of the bed and silently offered a glass of water and two aspirin, and Wilson gratefully gulped them down. The man didn't ask how he was feeling. From personal experience, he knew. Wilson blinked at him, having no memory of either this man in last night or of getting home. "You picked me up?"

"The bartender from Sherrie's called me about 10:00 last night. You'd given him your AA card." The man sat down next to him. "What happened last night, James? You weren't making much sense. Just kept saying you'd walked out on Sandra at the hospital and had to go apologize. I had trouble convincing you to wait until you were sober. Trust me, you were in no condition to be making apologies last night by the time I picked you up. You would have hurt your case a lot more than helped it."

Wilson looked at his watch. It was 9:00 a.m. _Shit_. He lurched to his feet and only barely kept the water from making an immediate exit the same way it had come in, though the issue hovered in doubt briefly. When he was sure it was going to stay down for the moment, he put the trash can back down. "I've got to get to the hospital and talk to her." He headed for the door.

His sponsor caught up with him before he got there. "James, you really might want to get dressed first." Wilson looked down at himself, realizing for the first time that he was wearing only his boxers. "You threw up on your pants in my car. I rinsed them out."

"Sorry," Wilson said. He had no memory at all of the trip home.

"You need to take a shower, too. I'll go make you some eggs while you're doing that."

Wilson shook his head. "I have _got _to get to the hospital to talk to her."

"James, you still smell like alcohol. I think you'd spilled at least one on yourself. You definitely need to clean up before talking to her. Don't start out any further under than you can help."

Wilson picked up a hand and sniffed it. He did indeed smell like a brewery. Ten minutes wasn't going to really help him that much anyway, and appearing without looking and smelling like he'd just rolled out of a bar might be a positive first step. "Okay. No time for breakfast, though."

"Eggs and juice will help with the hangover. I'll have them done by the time you get out; won't slow you down much." The man headed for the kitchen, and Wilson went into the main bathroom, ignoring the bathroom off her bedroom. He already felt like an intruder for winding up somehow in her bed uninvited, and now her sheets would smell like alcohol. He didn't want to do the same to her towels.

The shower helped him a bit. He still had a severe headache, but at least his mind felt a little clearer. He went across the hall to his own bedroom for a fresh set of clothes, his mind consumed with just one thought. He had to talk to her.

A plate of eggs and a glass of orange juice were waiting, and as much as he fretted at the delay, he knew that would help, too. He ate them quickly, and five minutes later, they were in the car. The day was crisp and clear, the morning sunlight an assault. Wilson narrowed his eyes. He hadn't stopped to hunt for sunglasses. His sponsor gave him a sympathetic look. "I'll take you back to Sherrie's for your car."

"No time. I'll get it later, Bill. Just take me to the hospital, please." Wilson drummed his fingers on the car door.

Bill obligingly switched course. "What happened last night?" he asked again. Wilson had seemed to be doing so well.

"Sandra went into preterm labor, and my son was born."

"Congratulations! Is he all right?"

Wilson cringed. AA didn't know about his extracurricular activities last fall and their consequences. "No. He went into distress as soon as he was born."

"Did they get him stabilized?" Bill asked with concern.

Wilson closed his eyes completely. "I don't know. I . . . I couldn't take it. That's when I walked out. She wasn't even awake yet."

His sponsor flinched. "Wow. Better have your groveling shoes on. Surely the hospital would have called you with an update on the baby's condition when they couldn't find you, though. She might be ignoring you by now, but the doctors on your son's case wouldn't."

Wilson's eyes snapped back open, and the sunlight eagerly gave him an extra jolt of pain. He quickly felt his pockets, patting through all of them like a third-base coach in baseball giving the signs, but there was no cell phone. "Where's my cell phone?"

"It was in your pants pocket when I took off your pants after you puked on them last night. I left it on the sink after I rinsed out the pants and hung them on the shower rod. Didn't you see it?"

Wilson groaned. "In the master bathroom, of course."

"Of course. I'd never been to your place before - had to get the address from your wallet - but I didn't have to look for the bedroom, at least. You were having trouble even walking, but you definitely headed straight for that room on your own. Your wallet was with the phone, too. You didn't see them?"

Wilson shook his head and immediately regretted it. "No. I was in too much of a hurry."

"Sorry, James. I should have mentioned them. I did offer to call somebody and leave a message last night, by the way, but you didn't want me to." Bill fished out his own wallet at a stoplight and passed over a $10. "Here. That will at least give you something for today. You can pay me back later."

"Thanks, Bill." Wilson shoved it into his pocket. All the roles of his world were reversed suddenly. Others loaning him money. Others like House meeting their family responsibilities while he, James Wilson, ran for the hills.

No more. Whatever waited for him, he was going to face it this time. He just hoped he could convince her of that. He knew how infinitely harder he had made things after his abrupt departure last night.

PPTH loomed up ahead, and Bill turned into the circle drive. "Thanks for bailing me out last night," Wilson said sincerely.

"Good luck. And I'll see you at the next meeting." The last part was with firm emphasis, no criticism but still a clear statement.

Wilson nodded carefully, trying not to kick his headache up into passing gear again. "I'll be there." He opened the door and exited quickly. Taking a deep breath, he entered the hospital.

Employees looked at him curiously as he crossed the lobby. The hospital grapevine was indeed already humming on the fact that Dr. Wilson had simply walked out on his girlfriend and his son when they'd needed him, and some of them also noted that Wilson obviously had a first-class hangover. He looked as morose as Wile E. Coyote facing his imminent doom, and his sagging shoulders and narrowed eyes against even the lobby lights told their own story. Wilson didn't even notice them, for once not caring what those around him were thinking. The elevator dinged, and he entered it along with a family.

A family. Husband and wife, one kid. The wedding rings gleamed, taunting Wilson. He wondered if he ever had a chance now at being a true family with Sandra and his son. He wondered how much of a gift of physical problems he'd given his child. Had to go check on him, but first, above all, he had to see Sandra. The elevator stopped at two, and the family exited, leaving Wilson alone in the car. The elevator stopped again at three, and he groaned. Obviously, it was going to be one of those mornings where every single floor had a passenger getting either on or off. Maybe he should have taken the stairs, but he still felt just shaky enough that he wasn't sure that was a good idea.

The doors slid open at three, and House, waiting in front of them, started to enter, then jerked to a startled stop. Recovering, he firmly entered, hit the close door button, and then, once they were alone, pulled the emergency stop, trapping him with his target. He turned to face Wilson, taking in the bloodshot eyes and the obvious testimony of last night, and in the next moment, his fist slammed straight into the oncologist's jaw. Wilson staggered back against the wall but did not retaliate. House felt a surge of relief that Wilson was at least okay, if an idiot, but his tone was icy. "Well, well, the prodigal oncologist returns. Unfortunately, this isn't the Bible, so don't count on the same ending. What the _hell_ were you doing last night, and were there any other participants?"

Wilson shrank a full two inches in stature and gulped. With this reception from his best friend, what could he expect from Sandra? His mouth was suddenly full of cotton.

"I'm waiting," House said pointedly. "Furthermore, so is this elevator."

"I . . . um. . . I'm an idiot," Wilson started.

"And I've got a cane," House snapped. "Can we move on to something I don't know?"

"I just couldn't take it," Wilson said. "Looking at him in that OR fighting just to live and knowing it was my fault, I just couldn't take it." He stopped, noting the odd expression that had darted across House's face at his words. "Is he - is my son still alive?"

House stared at him, speechless for a moment. "Come on, House," Wilson pushed. "I have a right to know."

"You didn't even check your cell phone? Or your home messages? Only one home message, but I tried there too last night."

"I turned my cell phone off," Wilson admitted. "And then I walked out without it this morning in a hurry. You've got to tell me, House. Is he still alive?"

"_When_ you check your cell phone, you'll find about 30 messages. Those are just the ones from me. _Yes,_ he's alive. He'll probably be having surgery at some point today. It isn't HSV2."

Wilson mentally rewound and replayed that statement a few times. "It isn't HSV2?" he asked, just to hear it again.

"No. His problems had _nothing _to do with you. If you'd waited just an hour before bailing out to go on a guilt binge, you would have known that."

Wilson closed his eyes. It wasn't his fault. It _wasn't_ his fault. But last night absolutely, without any possible excuse was. "Damn. I really screwed up."

"You're back to stating the obvious again. Don't you want to know what he _does _have?"

His thoughts leaped back to his son. "Yes. Surgery, you said? What's the prognosis? What's wrong?"

"Congenital diaphragmatic hernia."

"Are there any other genetic defects you've found so far?"

"No. Apparently, that's the only one. He'll be okay with surgery. As for HSV2, I ran that one myself - twice - and then shredded it. It's not in the chart."

"Thank you, House," Wilson said sincerely. "Not that I deserve that."

"Damn right you don't. But the kid does, and so does Sandra."

"Sandra knows I'm gone?" There was the last shred of desperate hope in his tone that maybe she was still asleep.

"Yes. I stayed at the hospital last night to talk to her."

"How'd she take it?"

"She's devastated. What would you expect? You didn't even leave a message, and nobody could get in touch with you. That was a pretty clear communication of 'so long.'" Wilson flinched. "Are you going to tell me now that you weren't really leaving?"

"No," Wilson said softly. "I _was_ really leaving, at least I meant to. But I realized I couldn't. It's weird, House. The more I drank and tried to forget, the more I could only think of her. I haven't got the right to walk out. I've got responsibilities here."

House stared at him. Had Wilson _finally_ let go of his smokescreens and excuses and truly decided to commit to somebody? And if he had, did he have any chance with Sandra left? House couldn't have blamed her for telling him to take a long walk off a short bridge after last night. "Wilson, this is important. Did _anything_ else happen last night when you were drunk?"

Wilson faced him squarely. "No. I went to a bar and got plastered. I was just drinking, nothing else. I apparently turned in my AA card - don't remember that - and they called my sponsor. He brought me home - don't remember that either. But he'll confirm that I was talking about going back to apologize to her even last night. I was just too drunk to." He sighed. "This isn't about me, House. Even if it had been HSV2, things aren't about me. It's about them."

"Wow," House said softly. "Sure you didn't get in a bar fight and get hit on the head?"

"No, but maybe I should have been hit on the head sooner. What do you think, House? Do you think I have _any_ chance here?"

House paused longer than Wilson would have liked. This obviously wasn't a simple differential. "I don't know," he said finally. "I don't think she'll keep the kid away from you if you want visitation. But about her, I just don't know."

Pounding became audible on the doors. "Is there a problem in there?"

House jumped, suddenly realizing that it was the voice of one of the Secret Service men. They, of course, were reading everything in terms of hostage situations and threats at the moment. Having the President's doctor enter an elevator that immediately got stalled would kick their suspicions into overdrive.

"Fine," he called. He released the emergency stop. "The elevator was just stuck for a minute. I'm fine." The elevator went on up to four, and the doors slid open. House exited but stopped halfway, holding the door open. "Good luck, Wilson."

Wilson gave a short nod. "I'm . . . I apologize for last night, House. Thank you for everything you did."

House absorbed the comment but typically dodged. "I'm not the one you really need to apologize to. Go see her."

"I will."

House started to leave but stopped after just a step and slid his cane back between the doors. "One last thing, Wilson. Beware of Cuddy. Trust me, you do _not_ want to talk to her right now. Walk, no, _run _in the other direction at first sighting."

Wilson flinched. "Right. I will." House removed his cane, and slowly, the doors of the elevator car slid shut.


	28. Chapter 28

Wilson hesitated outside Sandra's room, collecting his thoughts. Peripherally, he was aware of the looks of some of the OB staff, looks that told him that his absence was indeed the lead story from last night on the hospital grapevine. Most of his attention was on Sandra, though, and his heart gave an odd twist within him. This was a different flavor of guilt than when he thought he had physically damaged their child, but it was no less bitter. Looking at her now, it was even more obvious how deeply he had hurt her last night.

She had the head of the hospital bed elevated halfway and was staring out the window, looking pale but determined, looking absolutely alone. Wilson wondered if he should have stopped for flowers in the gift shop or something, but part of him knew that it was far too late for that. He'd always prided himself on his charm, on his smooth psychological stroking of women to manipulate them, but he knew somehow that trying that approach here would doom him. Charm was worse than useless. Any effort at all to downplay this or smooth it over would fail; his only possible approach, and even that one not sure of success, was total sincerity. That scared the hell out of him. This felt like one of those nightmares from medical school where you suddenly find yourself in the final exam of a course you haven't even studied for all term. So much on the line here.

But he had to try. She was worth trying for.

A passing aide commented sotto voce as she went by. "Either go on in or just run away and get drunk again. You're blocking the hall."

Wilson flinched. He wasn't used to that tone from hospital staff, although he couldn't deny he deserved it. He took a deep breath and entered the room.

She didn't hear him, lost in thought. He stood just inside the door, grateful that she didn't have a roommate right now, and then he carefully closed the glass behind him. "Sandra," he said softly.

She jumped as if her name had been yelled, jumped sharply enough that she pulled her incision, and one hand pressed against her abdomen as she turned.

She looked at him. She took in all of it, the sagging shoulders, the narrowed, bloodshot eyes, the freshly rising bruise along the left side of his jaw, and the attitude of a guilty puppy. For at least a minute, she just looked at him in silence, and then she let out a sigh and looked down at her hand, pressing against the covers. The pain in her eyes was much more than physical.

Wilson had been rooted to the spot by her assessment, trying to analyze it and come up with his assigned score on the jerk factor, but now he surged forward as she looked away. "Sandra, I am so sorry."

"This time," she replied, the first words she had spoken since he entered.

"No! I mean, yes, I am sorry, but there won't be a next time. Yes, I left last night and got drunk, but I couldn't forget you and him. I _couldn't_. As much as I wanted to just shut off my responsibilities, I couldn't stop thinking about you. So I came back. And I promise you and him, I'm never going to leave again. You're my family."

She wanted to believe him, but she couldn't. "Right. You came back once you heard the messages House left and knew Daniel's problems weren't because of you."

"I haven't even heard the messages yet," Wilson insisted. "I was in such a hurry to get here this morning that I forgot my cell phone."

That got her attention, and she looked up at him, trying to gauge the truth of that. "You know about him already, though."

"I ran into House in the elevator." Wilson rubbed his jaw and flinched. "He nearly knocked me out."

She grinned suddenly, picturing it. "Good for him. You deserved it."

"I know." He gripped the bed rails, aware of her hand so close, but he knew he didn't have the right to take it yet. "I swear, I decided to come back last night, before I even knew. I would have last night, too, but my sponsor wouldn't let me." He sighed. "Probably a good thing." Passing out in her hospital room or throwing up all over her would hardly have added any sincerity points.

"So he found you," she said. "Tell me, did anybody else find you, too? Or you find them?"

"No," he said urgently. He knew that cheating was the sin that she would never again in a thousand years forgive him for, no matter the circumstances. "I didn't hook up with anybody, just got drunk. Nothing more. I turned in my AA card at the bar, and they called him. He came to pick me up. You can ask him yourself; all I wanted to do was to get back to you." He paused, trying to gauge how this was going. "I'll bring the cell phone in without checking when I get it, and you can listen to them with me. _Unheard_ messages. I promise, I didn't have any idea until 15 minutes ago when House told me. I was coming back anyway."

"But before that, you really _were_ leaving," she pointed out. "You offered to at first, you know. Just bail out, be a coward and run - not that you put it like that - and only relate to us by child support checks."

Wilson cringed. How he'd like to deny that, but she was right. He had made the offer. Even worse, he had actually believed it would be for the best, and he hadn't intended to return when he first left the hospital last night. "Yes," he admitted reluctantly. "I know I did, and I was leaving last night. But I was _wrong_. I finally realized that I was wrong. _Please_, Sandra, give me a chance to prove it. People _can_ change. House has changed, and if even House can. . ."

She smacked him, her right hand jumping out to hit his wrist on the hospital rails. She hurt herself by the abrupt movement, and the force behind it was nothing like House's dead-on slam to the jaw earlier, but somehow, this blow hurt Wilson even worse. "Don't you _dare_ say anything against him or treat him like he's the most unbelievable example of progress. Yes, he's changed, but he's _worked_ hard for it, too. And do you know who was here last night for me, for us? It damn sure _wasn't_ you."

Wilson swallowed and regrouped. "I know. I do respect him."

"Do you?" She studied him. "I wonder sometimes if you truly respect anything - either people or responsibilities. I thought the last several months you were making progress."

"I was. I had a relapse under stress, okay?"

She shook her head. "Last night wasn't a relapse under stress. I could understand that better, if you just went out to get drunk and that was all, but you were _leaving_ us, James. You had decided that before you ever picked up the first drink. That's not a relapse; that's a decision."

"A _wrong_ decision. And I realized that. It was like I finally really heard last night what people have been telling me all along. I've been a total idiot, but please let me prove to you I can change."

Sandra looked down again. How she longed to believe him, but she wasn't sure she could anymore. The fact that he had come back before hearing the messages - if true - was to his credit. But the fact that he had decided to leave shook her deeply. "What's going to happen some night if Daniel's cutting a tooth or I've had a hard day at work or you've lost a patient? How do I know you won't bail out again?"

Wilson shook his head. "I won't."

The door opened behind them, and the charge nurse entered. "Sandra? I'm sorry to interrupt when you've got _company_" - the emphasis on that word had Wilson shrinking in his shoes again - "but Dr. Mattison sent you a message."

Sandra immediately came to attention. "Is the baby okay? Did something happen?"

"He's fine. The surgery is going well, but it's just going to take a while, because the doctor has to go very slowly. If he moves everything around too abruptly, he could send him into shock. So they do a little bit, then let the baby rest and adapt for a while, then move on. But he said to tell you that Daniel Gregory is doing just fine."

Sandra's smile still had a worried edge, but she had relaxed more than at any time since Wilson had first seen her looking out the window. "Thank you. Tell him to take all the time he needs, but I appreciate the update."

"I will. Let us know if you need anything." The nurse exited.

Wilson stared at Sandra in stunned disbelief. "Daniel _Gregory_?"

Her smile evaporated, and the room was silent for a minute. Then her chin came up, determined. "Yes. Daniel Gregory. And that is _not_ going to be changed. It's already on the records."

"Boy, you women sure know where to hit a guy so it counts."

He saw the anger fire up in her eyes. "You think that's why I did it? To lash out at _you_? I thought you were _gone_, James. Gone like you've suggested already a few times. You really think I was sitting here thinking, 'Now what's the best way to hurt that SOB who I don't know if I'll ever even hear from again?'"

"You thought you might never hear from me again?" Wilson asked. "You really think I'd do that?"

"What was I supposed to think last night? Or this morning when I picked the name? No message, nobody had seen you, you weren't answering your phone, _and_ you've conveniently offered heading for the hills as a valid course of action in the past. Oh, I'll give you credit for the intended child support checks, but I wouldn't put it past you to have set them up through a lawyer or something just so you wouldn't have to talk to me."

Wilson flinched. "I . . . you're right."

She was derailed in mid tirade. "What?"

"You're right. I probably would have. Before I changed my mind last night." They looked at each other for a few seconds. "If you didn't do it to spite me, why _did_ you do it? As thanks to House for being here last night?"

"That's part of it, but not the biggest part."

"Then what's the biggest part?"

She looked back toward the window. "I really don't want to hurt you, James. Just remember, you specifically _asked_ for this." She hesitated, giving him time, but his curiosity and masculine stubbornness were up now.

"Tell me," he insisted.

"I knew he had a fight ahead of him physically. The doctor had just told me he was taking him to surgery. I wanted to give him a name with some strength in it, to try to give him something firm to hold onto. Daniel Gregory. Both parts. It's a strong name."

Wilson closed his eyes. Sandra looked back to him and felt a twinge of sympathy. In spite of everything, she _did_ love this man. She was just no longer naive enough to think love was enough. "I'm sorry you found out that way, James," she said softly. "I wasn't trying to hurt you."

He opened his eyes and met hers. "I deserve that, though," he said. "Sandra, I know there's no reason you should believe me, but I really did realize some new things last night. I know I don't deserve a second chance - third chance - with you, but Daniel deserves to have his father in his life. Please give me the chance to do better, for him."

She studied him. "I'd never try to shut you out with him if you want in. But about us, I'll be honest, James. It's going to take a lot. Last night _hurt_."

"I know. And I'd take it all back if I could, but I can't." He paused, rewinding her statement and suddenly realizing that she hadn't flat out said they had no chance. "I'm not going to leave again, Sandra. I'll be here. You told me months ago, you and Jensen, only I wasn't ready to hear it, that I haven't got the right to leave. I agree with you now. Unless you tell me flat out to get lost, of course, I'm not going anywhere."

He paused, half in dread, waiting. She was silent. "Then I'll be here," he said, as if in reply.

After a moment, she looked at the visitor's chair. "Sit down, James. You're using that bed rail for support as much as something for your hands to do."

"I do feel like crap," he admitted. She didn't actually say that he should, but she obviously thought it. It was clear from the reactions he was getting around the hospital that House's diagnostic genius wasn't required to evaluate his physical status this morning. Wilson released the bed rail and sat down beside her bed. He still wished he could take her hand, but he knew that would be crossing a line right now. For the moment, the fact that she hadn't thrown him out on his ear was the best he could hope for.


	29. Chapter 29

House shook his head in frustration. "Then we'll change the antibiotics. He's had enough time to start responding to the vanco if that would do it."

"We're just shooting in the dark," Foreman pointed out.

"Which is why we keep hunting for the light switch _while_ we change the antibiotics. Are you sure you people have managed to run the tests right?"

Taub didn't rise to the bait of House's biting sarcasm. He knew that Mark, whether actually House's psychiatrist or just close, was much more than the average patient. The trouble was, nothing they had tried or had tested for so far was yielding anything. All roads were dead ends, and meanwhile, Mark continued to get worse. "The tests were right. We just haven't got the answer yet."

House picked up his thinking ball and started tossing it, and Foreman came to attention. "What did you do to your hand?" A couple of the knuckles were split and bleeding slightly. Lost in their report of nonprogress and with House keeping the hand down until now, the two younger doctors hadn't noticed earlier.

"Wrecked my race car on the video game. Bad crash into the wall, but I walked away with barely a scratch." House got up and moved to the whiteboard in the conference room, staring at and through it as if commanding it by sheer will to divulge its secrets.

He _got up_, Foreman noted. Now that his attention was on his boss as much as the case, that anomaly struck him. House had been sitting down until now, sitting down in the middle of a tough differential. "Are you . . ."

House turned quickly, flinching a bit on the leg, and nailed him with a glare. "Wrong question. The question is, is our _patient_ okay, and the answer is _no_. So what are we doing about it?"

"I'll go switch antibiotics," Foreman said. Time to make his escape. The trouble with attempting to notice more things personally and see people as people, as his therapist was encouraging him to do, was that it sometimes got dangerous, particularly with House.

"I'll keep running tests, going down the list of possibilities," Taub offered. He was perfectly willing to retreat, too. House was on edge this morning; better to try to keep a distance.

"Then do it instead of standing here without any new ideas." They left quickly, and House returned to his desk, opening the internet and diving in, just in case somebody in some corner of the world had made a diagnosis or advance recently that he didn't know about.

He was reading an article in Spanish half an hour later when Kutner came in. The article had looked promising on Google but was proving yet another dead end on full reading, and House pushed the laptop away in annoyance as Kutner stopped by his desk. "Who the hell arranges these results on Google? You'd think they could improve the relevance."

"The computer operates on keywords . . ." Kutner launched into the technological explanation but almost immediately distracted himself. "What happened to your hand?"

House twisted it around to look at it. It was stinging, which he hadn't really noticed until Foreman kindly brought it to his attention, and which he'd almost succeeded in forgetting again until Kutner. "I walked through the set of a sci fi movie on the way into the hospital this morning, and I took a glancing blow from a light saber straight across the knuckles. Guess the force wasn't with me."

He'd hoped to divert Kutner, the Star Wars fanatic, but the enticing bait didn't work. "Come on, House. Did you even leave the hospital last night?"

"_Yes_," House insisted. Well, this morning, but that still counted. "Did you get the glucose tolerance tests set up for the Prez?"

"All set for today. If he has diabetes after all, that would explain a lot, both the feet and the hypoglycemia."

House switched cases mentally. He wasn't making progress on Mark anyway, maybe a brief time-out would help. "The skin on the legs is starting to flake off a bit this morning, and his peripheral pulses are decreasing, but still no sign of clots. I've already started vasodilators. But the feet . . ." He trailed off. Even if he didn't like politicians in general and even if this President was annoying as all get out as a patient, he hated thinking of anybody entering the ranks of the permanently physically disabled. But if he couldn't turn the process around, that might happen. If his feet went gangrenous, the final answer when all else failed was to cut them off. "Damn the man. All we get is the supervised story. All of his actions, food, exposures, and locations for the last two months have been carefully screened, performed in front of witnesses, and certified completely safe. Bull. Nobody can live like that and not have a private rebellion here and there. Maybe you could distract the Secret Service somehow and give me a shot at him alone."

Kutner flinched. "Bad choice of words, House. I couldn't possibly distract all of them, and if I get arrested, I can't help you on the case, remember. You'd have to do all the contact with him yourself."

"Good point." House sighed. "There has to be _some_ way, though. Maybe you can at least distract his wife. Getting her out of the room might help." He looked up, noting Cuddy walking by in the hall with a surreptitious glance in. She was doing another checkup to make sure he was working. He gritted his teeth, annoyance and worry wrestling in a fairly even contest. The total lack of professional trust still galled him.

Cuddy slammed to a stop and switched from surreptitious to open concern as she surged through the door, nearly knocking Kutner out of the way. "Greg, _what happened to your hand_?"

He looked at her oddly. "It's just a scratch. Take a deep breath. Long way from my heart, like they say."

She had captured his hand and was inspecting it thoroughly. "Kutner, go get the first aid kit from the conference room. Greg, what happened?"

"I hit Wilson," he replied. Kutner, heading for the conference room, broke stride just slightly on the impact of that.

Cuddy still looked near frantic - over a _scratch_? This was ridiculous. No administrator could keep all bumps and bruises from occurring in her hospital; it wasn't a professional failing. Alongside the worry, though, she started to smile. "Good for you." Kutner paused again as he reached for the kit. House could picture supersized ears on extensions projecting from his fellow's head back into the office. "So he's back?"

"Yep, tail between the legs and all."

"I need to talk to him."

"Actually, Lisa, he was heading for Sandra, and I really think she has the right to claim first place in line. Leave her a free field for the moment."

Cuddy considered that, then nodded. "For the moment," she said reluctantly. "I hope she skins him alive." She whirled around to Kutner, who was standing in the doorway between the rooms, holding the kit and obviously wondering if she was safe to approach in the middle of these violent thoughts. "Get over here and stop wasting time." Kutner gulped and closed the gap, handing her the kit, and she started carefully - too carefully - cleaning the abrasions.

"It's just a _scratch_, Lisa. I'll live." House had also twinged his leg pretty sharply on the force of that blow, but he wasn't about to mention that right now to Cuddy. He was sitting down, so she couldn't tell.

"Even a minor scratch can lead to infection. As a doctor, you should know that, and there are all sorts of potential exposures in a hospital." She finally finished her quintuple antiseptic application and picked up a roll of gauze, then looked at him as if measuring how long it had a chance of staying on. Yielding to the inevitable, she put the gauze back and picked up Band-Aids instead, one to each of the three injured fingers. "There." She held onto his hand for a minute longer, not romantically but with an odd intensity to it, then suddenly seemed to snap to herself. "Get to work, both of you," she said, then turned and left the office.

House let out a deep breath, and Kutner looked at him in sympathy. "Wow. She's . . ." He paused, hunting for an adequate word.

"Yeah," House agreed. He straightened up abruptly, the blue fire lighting up in his eyes, and Kutner prepared to dive back into the medical case.

House turned to him, but there were no medical revelations forthcoming. Instead, he said, with an odd note of combined mischief and worry in his tone, "Hey Kutner, how would you like to earn $500?"


	30. Chapter 30

Thanks for all the reviews! Not typed on my computer - major crash this weekend, cannot work at all while waiting for shop on Monday to open, hopefully can kick start computer then and recover work files. So first, good thoughts for tomorrow at computer shop greatly appreciated - that computer is my entire work life, and it would cost me quite a while to get tech to remote load extensive work programs onto another - and second, reviews on what has turned into a crappy and costly weekend would brighten it at least a little. And third, I'm in a word processor I've never used, on a temporarily borrowed computer I've never used (but can't work from), so if a few format glitches, forgive me.

On time line, which a few folks have asked, it's now Thursday late morning. The big showdown between Cuddy and House is Saturday morning. With more mayhem between on all fronts, of course. There's also a Sandra chapter coming up a lot sooner that fills in a few more background blanks on her approach to Wilson and the reason for it.

(H/C)

Kutner stared at House incredulously. "You want _me_ to tell Cuddy she needs therapy?"

House hit his feet, restlessness overcoming the ache in his leg for the moment. He _hated_ doing this, having to ask others for help and to open up on his personal issues. "No. Like I said, I already told her she needed therapy. She doesn't believe me, because I am apparently so screwed up that I'm overqualified to recommend therapy to anybody else, because anybody less messed up than me - she did modify to say she knew I needed it - can deal with things themselves."

Kutner was starting to look sympathetic, which annoyed House even more. "She actually said that to you?"

"Pretty much." House paced to the end of the office and back, then snatched up the thinking ball, tossing it lightly left handed, leaving his right hand free for the cane as he resumed his trek. "All you have to do is tell her that _you_ needed therapy. You told me once you'd been shrunk yourself and it had helped."

"Right. I had some issues tied to watching my parents get killed in front of me." Kutner flinched slightly, and House looked away. Part of him felt badly about using something like that for his own benefit, but the larger part couldn't help seizing it anyway. House just couldn't help collecting data in case it might be useful later; that was how his mind worked. Kutner's statement from two years ago had stuck. And clearly therapy _had_ helped the other man. His fellow had to be one of the best-adjusted, most even-keeled people he'd ever met.

House continued quickly before he could chicken out. "Cuddy thinks that nothing that happened shorter term than what I had could be traumatic. So anything less than 15 years, and you'll carry more weight as an example than I will here."

Kutner sighed. "Well, it took a lot less than 15 years. More like 15 minutes for the whole robbery and murder. I really don't want to go into all that again . . ."

"Then forget it," House snapped. He limped out quickly into the hall. Damned emotions. He was both annoyed at Kutner now and annoyed at himself for asking, for playing that particular card. Had the circumstances been reversed and someone else trying to use his own past for a favor, House would have lost patience a whole lot faster than Kutner just had.

"House!" Kutner followed him. House ignored him; he simply could not deal with a continued emotional conversation right now. Asking in the first place had been a desperate hope out of worry for Cuddy, but he couldn't blame the other doctor for refusing. He entered the elevator and stabbed at the button for the ICU floor. Might as well go look at Jensen's brother, who was getting more and more critical while they were spinning their wheels in the lab, just to emphasize a trifecta of his failures within just one hour. He'd failed to help Cuddy, pissed off and offended Kutner, and was still at a dead end diagnostically, the one area above all in which he was supposed to excel. There had to be some kind of prize for that.

Kutner followed him into the elevator, hit the close door button, and pulled the emergency stop. "House. You never let me finish that sentence."

House started pacing in the elevator. "You didn't have to. The answer was obvious."

"No, it _wasn't_." Kutner watched his boss's stride. The tight circles in the elevator were only emphasizing the fact that House's leg was hurting more than usual. Kutner wondered if he'd jolted it hitting Wilson. He made a mental note to log onto the hospital grapevine at lunch - he'd been too busy with the President so far this morning - and see what rumors about Wilson were floating around. He'd left (with a new baby in trouble here)? But was back? And House and Cuddy were both pissed off at him about it? Kutner refocused on House at the moment, who was winding himself up into a real agitation fit in the elevator, obviously feeling trapped emotionally as well as physically. "House, I was going to say, I really don't want to go into all that again, but if it would help you, I will, as a favor."

House slammed to a stop so fast that his leg protested. "You will?" Stark relief ran across his face, followed immediately by bewilderment. "As a _favor_? Why the hell would you want to do me a favor?"

"Because you deserve it," Kutner replied simply.

House stared at him, speechless for a moment, then fished out his wallet and counted off hundreds, thrusting them at the other doctor. "Take the damn money."

Kutner took it merely to settle House down. He would have done it for free; there _wasn't_ a price that could be put on that assignment. But he realized watching House now that House wasn't ready to accept it that way. Wrong time to push him, with Cuddy obviously having problems and him worried and feeling helpless. "Okay, okay. Just breathe for a minute." He put the bills away, taking time to fold them neatly and give House a slight break. "So you want me to just casually mention how much I needed help after what I went through."

"Right. She can make the extension - hopefully. I really think suggesting to her directly would just get her mad." House looked at his watch. "But not right now. Let's wait until after lunch. Too close to her being in my office just now, and she'd realize I asked you."

Kutner thought she was going to make that assumption anyway no matter when he tried it, but he yielded for the moment. "Okay. What do we do in the meantime?"

"I . . . let's go see the President again." House released the emergency stop and hit 3, ignoring his earlier selection. "You get his wife out of the room, say you have some additional questions for her or something. Work on any holes in the history. I'll try him without her, although I really wish I could get the guards all out, too."

Kutner looked over at House's hand as the elevator resumed motion. "Cuddy spotted your hand clear from the hallway. I'm impressed."

"She's hyperfocused on me right now, making sure I'm _working_," House said, annoyance dripping off the tone.

"She didn't - well, okay, she did focus on work some. But she sounded worried, House."

House tilted his head, considering that, but it plugged into nothing at the moment. "She's the one things have been happening to this week, not me."

"I know. I just thought her attitude was weird."

House gave an unintelligible grumble and looked at his watch. "She's got a conference at 1:00. You can see her after that about 2:00. And just remember, you're getting $500 for this." He pushed that fact out quickly before Kutner could revert to the far-more-expensive currency of favors.

They got off at 3 and went through the security check into the west wing, with the guards having a good look at House's thinking ball. He hadn't realized until now he'd walked out of the office with it. He was on the cleared list, though, and the desk squad had seen enough of him by now to expect the unexpected without necessarily having it be sinister. House proved the ball's non-bombness by snatching it impatiently back from the examining hands and bouncing it in a complicated pattern off the wall and then the ceiling before catching it. The guard rolled his eyes but let it pass, and House shoved the ball in his pocket as they went on down the hall to the last room.

"Mrs. Whittaker, could I talk to you for a minute?" Kutner was all professional courtesy, and she exited the room fairly willingly with one worried glance behind at her husband.

House pushed on up to the bed and pulled the sheet off the feet. Unmistakably dusky on all toes now. He sighed. "Okay, Chief, once again, now that she's not here, have you been sleeping with anybody else lately? Or eating strange foods, or going to dark, germy corners, or any other unapproved and unscreened non-presidential activities?"

"I _told_ you, I can't sneak out." The President looked at the entourage of guards, all looking indisputably present.

House banged one hand on the bed rails in annoyance. "Tell me, when you're having sex with your wife, are they all there watching too and logging it in their reports?"

"No, of course not. Someone's always just outside the door, though."

"So you _do_ get left alone in a room once in a while. Ever exit it through an alternate route?"

"No." The President was absolutely stubbornly locked down. House was reminded of Mark, but with differences. Mark simply didn't think he had the right to be sick, that it was a personal failing, an attitude he shared, incidentally, with Cuddy. House wrenched his thoughts back away from Cuddy. The President, however, was purely thinking in terms of political consequences. Every move, every word passed first through the gates of, "What would America think if they all knew this, and would it change their vote in the next election?" Both were annoying, but Mark was easier for House to understand.

"Listen, you stubborn jackass. I'm not a reporter, nor an informant. I just want to cure you."

The White House doctor moved up to the other side of the bed. "Sir, I really think there is nothing here that we couldn't do in DC. You're stable enough, even if there is clearly something wrong with your feet. I'd like to transfer you."

House looked at him curiously. "How long since you've slept with the First Lady?"

"Four nights ago," the President started to answer, and House held out a hand.

"I wasn't asking you."

The President and his doctor both came to sputtering attention. "That's ridiculous," the President protested, right as the doctor said with stiff dignity, "I assure you, I have _never_ slept with Mrs. Whittaker."

"Why is it ridiculous?" House asked. "She's a woman, he's a man. Furthermore, they obviously carry a personal grudge between them. He also doesn't use her last name as a courtesy; there's an odd pointed undertone there. Classic affair where she then got tired or bored or underwhelmed and told him to take a hike, and now, just to be contrary, he goes against anything she wants, because it's her who wants it. Also tries to undercut what she wants once she's out of the room."

The doctor shook his head. "I have _no_ idea where you get these ideas, Dr. House."

"Well, hopefully I've given you two a subject to keep the boredom away for a few hours, at least." House immediately switched his attention back purely to the medical case even while the President was starting another too-intense statement of absolute belief in his wife. "Now once again, neuropathy. Numbness and tingling, occasional burning sensation. How long has it been going on?"

The President was looking thoroughly annoyed now. "About a week," he snapped without taking time to think.

"Wow. A straight answer. Thank you." House recovered the man's feet. "We're testing further today to see if you do have an undiagnosed case of diabetes, but I don't really think so. Diabetes _can_ cause this, but it would be hard to have it get this far undiagnosed. Too many other symptoms along the road first. I'll be back later this afternoon." He turned and limped out of the room, feeling more satisfied with himself now. He'd rattled the President, hopefully given him some additional motive to confess his own sins, and even annoyed the doctor on the side. Now _that_ was a decent trifecta to hit in 10 minutes.

Kutner was in one of the other rooms being patient and polite with the First Lady, but House caught his subtle head shake as he entered. No new data. Not that that surprised House, because whatever the President had been doing on the side (Strange food? Diseased prostitutes? Environmental exposures?), House didn't think it had been with his wife along. First Ladies had their own agenda and causes and such these days, though; there were no doubt plenty of times when the two weren't even in the same state or country.

House sliced relentlessly through Kutner's latest polite question. "By the way, Mrs. Prez, how long has it been since you slept with your husband's doctor?"

She stared at him, then bristled up in righteous indignation, and House was seized with a sudden image of Belle with bushed tail, ready for a quarrel. "How _dare _you question my fidelity."

"Believe me, I've asked a lot of other people questions like that. But like I was telling your husband just now, I'm not a reporter. Anything I ask _is_ just for the medical relevance."

She shook her head. "I realize with your unfortunate background, Dr. House, that you don't really know what a family is, but I assure you, _I do." _She turned and stalked off, heading back for hopefully an interesting conversation with her husband

House stood looking after her for a moment, shoulders drooping a little. His satisfaction of just a minute ago had vanished.

"House?" Kutner asked.

House came to himself. "That one understands how to fight dirty. I'm starting to have more sympathy for the President's doctor."

"Were they really having an affair?"

"Yes. Note the past tense," House replied, and Kutner immediately accepted it as fact. "Unfortunately, that's probably not relevant. But I'll research the doctor some, just to make sure. The real question is, who did her husband have an affair - or more likely a brief international fling on a state visit - with? And where, and with what handy environmental factors also there? Let them chew on each other for a few hours, and maybe he'll be more inclined to tell us later."

"Maybe she'll want to transfer him now that you got her mad."

House shook his head. "Nope. They're two of a kind, her and her husband. She can take personal annoyance with only a few subtle female stabs here and there for the sake of the position. Not saying there aren't feelings between them, too, but she really enjoys being the First Lady. It's in her interests to keep the President healthy and presidential and up for re-election after this term, and for that, she knows he's better off here with me on the case." He sighed, suddenly looking worn out.

Kutner noticed. "Why don't you go take a nap for an hour? I'm sure you were up last night with Wilson's kid."

House considered it briefly, which was a statement as to how tired he was, then shook his head. "Got to keep researching on Mark. You see about the glucose tolerance tests today." He limped slowly off, and Kutner watched him.

Just before he got to the elevator, Cuddy got off, her eyes zeroing in on him, although she didn't speak to him, only gave him a nod and went to the security desk with some administrative question. House, though, had no doubt that once again, she had been checking that he was working. Tired, aching, annoyed, and no closer to a diagnosis on either remaining patient, House entered the elevator. Once the doors closed behind him, he sagged wearily for a moment under the load, then straightened back up and kicked his mind into gear. By the time the elevator had gone up one and deposited him on 4, he was once again deep in Mark's case.


	31. Chapter 31

A/N: Work computer is toast, extra crispy. New computer today. Between that and unable to work for 3 days, a very expensive weekend. Sigh. Wish I could pay bills with reviews. They are at least encouraging, like virtual chocolate.

(H/C)

Wilson entered the elevator and stood there deep in thought, oblivious to the four visitors and family members who were there already. He punched the button for the floor with the NICU.

Daniel had just gotten out of surgery, and the surgeon had come in to talk to them, with a sidelong curious glance at Wilson that had him cringing again. The operation had gone well, the hole was closed with everything in the proper orientation on each side now, and the baby had been taken straight back to NICU. He was still on the ventilator and would be for a while as his lungs recovered from being squished, but he was stable. Wilson was now on his way down to see his son for the first time. A glimpse from the OR observation room last night, followed by immediate retreat, hardly counted as seeing him. Sandra was taking a nap, worn out by stress and from mentally following the surgery on her child for hours, but Wilson had assured her that he would be back.

His son. The impact of those two words had a heavy finality to them that was both wondrous and frightening. This was his son, and he now had to be a father. He had to put aside the guilt of last night and go on to meet his responsibilities, to be what Daniel needed. It was all about being there for him now.

For the first time, though, Wilson found himself wondering about his parents and their inability to fully accept and deal with Danny's schizophrenia. He had only been mad at them as a child, feeling the injustice of having to carry what he _knew_ should have been their role. But now, after last night when he himself had gone far beyond any neglect they had shown, he wondered if there had been guilt there. Did they blame themselves for their son's illness? Was _that_ what they had had so much trouble facing? Wilson knew medically, as a textbook fact, that many parents of children with medical problems do wonder if they were to blame, if something that they did was being punished, if they could have done something earlier that would have made a difference. Even in cases where it's confirmed to just be a statistical anomaly, parents can wonder if they somehow caused this. Logic isn't part of the equation.

Of course, in Wilson's case, had his son had HSV-2, the blame would have been directly on Wilson, no genetic fluke or statistics required. That really _would_ have been caused by him. But parents with no hard proof at all that they affected their children's health can still feel guilty. He'd known that, but he'd never extended that medical knowledge potentially to his parents.

Not that that excused their turning the other way and dumping everything on him. But they had at least provided food and shelter for their son. After last night when he had actually been in the process of bolting for the hills, Wilson for the first time in a long time felt some sympathy stirring for his parents.

The elevator arrived at his floor, and he exited and headed for the NICU. Easy to spot Daniel through the window; the poor baby had an extensive surgical dressing all down his small chest and abdomen. Wilson flinched as if he himself felt the pain that his son didn't yet. He needed to be closer, though. He entered the small room off the NICU and changed into a pair of the scrubs there. He still had a headache, as bending over reminded him, but it was slowly starting to lose its grip, and he no longer felt like he might shatter if he stepped too hard.

In scrubs, he entered the NICU itself. The nurses looked at him. They knew, of course. No grapevine needed here, nor on the OB floor; those areas had direct evidence that he had been AWOL last night and not turned up at all while his family had been struggling.

He couldn't undo it. He could never undo that. All he could resolve was to be there from now on.

He walked over to the cubicle and looked at his son. Daniel was on the ventilator, of course, and his eyes were closed. He was still under the effects of anesthesia, and he lay absolutely still. He looked like a good-sized baby for his gestational age, though, and he was obviously far more developed than little Abby had been. Abby had almost looked like an extraterrestrial at first when she was in the NICU. Daniel looked like a sick baby, but he looked better than many of his NICU-mates. Wilson knew that probably he would be leaving sooner than most of them, too.

Wilson reached out, glad that Daniel was in a cubicle and not an enclosed incubator so that he could be more easily touched. He touched his son's hand, feeling a tidal wave of love hit him. This new life was _his_, a part of him forever. "I'm here now," he said softly. "I'm so sorry I wasn't last night, but I'm here for you now."

One of the nurses came up beside him, breaking the standoff of the staff just looking at him. "He's doing very well, Dr. Wilson."

Wilson studied him and gently touched the dressing, wincing. "Is he is pain?"

"He's still asleep right now, and we'll give him medicine. We'll make sure he isn't in pain. It slows down healing; he needs to be putting all of his energy toward that right now. He's a vigorous baby, though. He was even fighting the doctors some last night. He's got a lot of strength in him."

Last night. Wilson sighed, thought of saying something, then stopped himself. There was nothing he could say, no words enough. His actions from now on would have to convince people, himself included, that he could do this. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

A monitor beeped at another cubicle, and the nurse moved away from him. Wilson finally dragged his eyes off his son long enough to take inventory of the equipment - frightening, but again, many babies here were on more - and finally ending at the name tag on the foot end. Daniel Gregory Wilson.

Sandra hadn't taken the last name away. The middle name still hurt, but Wilson couldn't resent it. He knew he deserved that, although her assessment that James was a name without strength had been hard to swallow. His son's name would always be a reminder to him of the night he had run away.

Gregory. He looked at the middle name and suddenly remembered House the night Abby was born and the next two days. House had had a _brain injury_, and he had still been there for his family, even risking his own life by his absolute focus on them. House, whom Wilson had often, he admitted, criticized and derided, had not run that night. Not like Wilson had last night.

Yes, it was a strong name. Part of Wilson still wished, though, that his name was the one there.

He stood for a few more minutes, then took out Sandra's cell phone and took several pictures of his son to show her. Finally, he picked up the hand, so tiny in his, but the fingers were perfectly formed in miniature. "I'll be back," he promised. Slowly, with a few pauses to look back, he left the NICU.

(H/C)

"House."

A hand was on his shoulder, and House stirred, removed his face from his laptop keyboard, and straightened up. He had fallen asleep at his desk while doing research for Mark. He looked up into Kutner's face.

"You okay?"

"Fine," he replied automatically and glanced at his watch. He'd been asleep for about an hour and 45 minutes. Odd that Cuddy hadn't been by for a check; surely she would have protested that he wasn't working if she saw him asleep. He would have expected another walk-by before her conference at 1:00. He checked his pager and cell phone, just in case he'd slept through a message about Mark, then slowly rotated his neck, trying to work the crick out of it and his shoulders. Really, his desk wasn't that comfortable to sleep at. Should have been doing research, he thought, annoyed at himself. "How's the President?"

"GTT is negative so far. We've still got a few intervals to check it at. The atmosphere is definitely thicker in there than it was."

House grinned. "Good." He looked at his watch again and abruptly realized why Kutner was here. It was heading for 2:00. Cuddy. The rock settled back in the pit of his stomach. "You backing out on me?" he asked, a challenging tone that couldn't quite hide the fear underneath it.

"No," Kutner replied. "I said I'd do it."

House took a deep breath. "Okay. Borrowing a page from her, I want your cell phone in your pocket on an open line so I can hear."

Kutner realized that House wasn't distrusting him, just incredibly worried about Cuddy. He'd probably chew his fingernails off up here wondering what was going on if he weren't in the loop. "Right." He sighed. "House, I'm doing this to try to help you out like I said, but I don't think it's going to work. Just . . ."

House cut him off. "If it doesn't work, like a differential, we try something else until something does. Don't worry; you'll earn your money anyway." And what on earth else was there? He simply couldn't see many options with Cuddy that had any hope, even a long shot, of success. Which was the wrong answer. Just like their patients, her case got more severe as time passed. She needed treatment as much as they did.

Kutner pulled out his cell phone and dialed, and House's went into Mmm Bopp. He opened the line and nodded to Kutner. "Go out into the hall with it in your pocket and say something. Let's make sure I can hear."

Kutner gave him a nod and retreated almost to the elevator. "Can you hear me now?" he asked, sounding like the Verizon commercial. He waited for a response and suddenly realized that he couldn't hear House like that. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and put it up to his ear. "Did you hear that?"

"Yes. Go on."

Kutner pushed the button for the elevator and fought down his own qualms. He really didn't think this was going to go well. He was doing it for House, not Cuddy. His non phone hand found his lucky rabbit's foot in his pocket and stroked it. The $500 in his wallet was forgotten. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck," House said. He heard Kutner slide the phone back into his pocket, and House sat at his desk, tense as piano wires, waiting, hoping, and knowing this wasn't the ideal approach. But it was the only one he could think of right now. "You'll need it," he added softly.


	32. Chapter 32

On the way back from the NICU, Wilson decided to go get a cup of coffee. He still hadn't really felt like eating lunch, but coffee might help chase away the diminishing headache, and he expected Sandra to be asleep for a little while. She'd been worn out from stress over their son - and over him. Wilson cringed again, even though nobody happened to be looking at him at that moment.

At the door to the cafeteria, he nearly walked into Jensen, who was exiting with a large Styrofoam cup in each hand. The psychiatrist came to a startled stop, then quickly moved over to a fairly unoccupied section of wall, out of the main traffic lanes into the cafeteria. "Come here," he said, much more a command than a suggestion. Wilson sighed but walked on over. Jensen obviously knew the score, more likely from House than from the hospital grapevine, but Wilson really didn't feel like a session right now, even if he knew he needed one. He wanted to get the hangover thoroughly beaten before getting into the professional analysis of all the ways he'd screwed up. Jensen had a quiet authority when he chose that was hard to ignore, though. Wilson came to a stop in front of the psychiatrist, but his eyes were down.

"Are you back?" Jensen asked softly. Wilson nodded mutely. "Have you talked to Sandra yet?"

"Yes. She didn't throw me out the window, but I'm not sure if she thought it." Wilson sighed. "I know, okay? I totally blew it, freaked out, and ran. I did realize it was a mistake, though."

"Good," Jensen replied. Anybody else might have had a sarcastic bite to that comment, but Jensen sounded completely sincere. "Did you get into a bar fight last night?" the psychiatrist asked, eying Wilson's purpling jaw.

"No, House hit me when he saw me this morning," Wilson admitted.

Jensen couldn't hide a slight smile at the image. "He'd been worried about you."

"He was pissed off," Wilson corrected.

"That too. How's the baby?"

"He's got some recovery ahead, but he's doing okay for now. He just got out of surgery; I was down seeing him." Wilson couldn't help taking out Sandra's cell phone, and Jensen moved over a bit to see the slide show of photos.

"Congratulations. He looks almost like a full term baby, not nearly as early as Abby."

Wilson smiled for the first time without regret behind it, thinking of his son. "They said he's a strong one. Hopefully he'll be fine in a month or so when his lungs have recovered and he's all healed up from surgery." His smile suddenly drooped. "Sandra changed his name. Daniel Gregory."

Jensen, who had known the intended one, flinched. "Do _not_ challenge her on that," he advised.

"I won't. She told me why she changed it, and she was right." Wilson shifted his feet uncomfortably. "She said she won't shut me out of his life, but with her, I think I'm back to square one."

"If you aren't in the negative numbers, you've still got a chance." Jensen looked at his watch, careful not to spill the coffee he was holding, and Wilson misinterpreted the gesture.

"Look, I really don't feel like going somewhere for a full session right now. Sandra's taking a nap, but she'll wake up soon, and I . . .I've still got the tail end of a hangover. Let's put it off for later."

"We'll have to," Jensen stated. "I haven't got time or energy right now; I need to get back upstairs."

Wilson was startled out of his own problems and for the first time in the conversation really looked at the psychiatrist. Jensen looked as worried and strung out as Wilson had ever seen him. Too late, he remembered why the other man was even here in the hospital. "How's your brother doing?"

"Not good." He looked almost lost as he said it, and Wilson couldn't help feeling his famous bedside manner kicking in, providing encouragement.

"House is still on the case, and you know he's the best there is. He could come up with one of his epiphanies any moment now."

"I know. I am glad you're back, James. We'll talk some other time." Jensen walked away, and Wilson watched him retreat, for the first time realizing this morning that there were far more critical situations in PPTH than his own, whether he got back with Sandra or not. Wishing the psychiatrist - and House - good luck, he went on into the cafeteria.

(H/C)

Cuddy had planned to go check up on House again as soon as her conference was over, but the former patient and family had no sooner left her office than her secretary buzzed her. "Dr. Kutner would like to see you, Dr. Cuddy."

Kutner? Had something happened to House? He'd been fine not much more than an hour ago when she went up to his office before the conference. He'd fallen asleep on top of his laptop, and Cuddy had taken advantage of the unobserved opportunity to stand there in the office watching him for a few minutes, her thoughts a tangle of love and fear. House looked worn out. Of course, he'd been up last night dealing with Wilson's son and then with Sandra. Cuddy tossed a new log onto the fire of anger against Wilson. She couldn't deny House's point that Sandra deserved first call, but Cuddy planned to have a talk with Wilson herself later on, just making sure he realized the full meaning of his actions. With a pang of regret, she remembered her own misstatement from last night, too, and no doubt House had been gnawing on that bone all night on top of everything else. She was glad she'd had a chance to apologize and get that cleared up, at least. But House did look exhausted, and she was careful not to disturb him, just watched for a few minutes, making sure he was safe, then left his office.

But now _Kutner_ was here? Kutner alone, without House? Her heart jumped back up into her throat, and her pulse went into doubletime. "Send him in."

Kutner entered the office slowly, almost sheepishly, the picture of a man on a mission he wasn't looking forward to. "Is something wrong with House?" Cuddy demanded, urgency putting a bite into her tone.

Kutner looked confused. "No, he's fine. He's doing research on the cases." Kutner's hand stroked the lucky rabbit's foot, and he plunged on into the battle. Might as well get this over with as soon as possible. "I was just seeing the President."

Cuddy's concern leaped to a different channel, even if a lesser volume one than House. "Is something wrong with _him_?"

"No. I mean, not besides what we're working on already. We're doing glucose tolerance tests today, just to see if he has developed diabetes after all."

Cuddy shook her head. "Diabetes wouldn't get to this level to cause this much change in the feet without other symptoms first."

"Yeah, I know. House doesn't think it's diabetes; just ruling it out. He thinks it's some kind of environmental exposure to some foreign bug in another country, but the President doesn't want to admit he's been anywhere or done anything unauthorized, and all of his authorized activities are prescreened and certified safe."

"I can just _imagine_ House's reaction to that." Cuddy was smiling now, hearing her husband's tone mentally.

"He's working on breaking him down, got him and his wife mad at least." Kutner swerved back off this tempting trail of distraction and resumed his main objective. "Anyway, like I said, I was with the President earlier, and I got to thinking." He hesitated.

"What were you thinking?"

Kutner took a deep breath and gave another few strokes of his rabbit's foot. "You know my parents were killed in front of me when I was 6. Their store was being robbed, and the robber just gunned them down. He already had the money, even; they weren't resisting." Kutner couldn't help reacting emotionally, his tone tightening up, even though he'd processed this long since. The memories still hurt. "Five minutes earlier, everything was fine, and that fast, our lives all changed."

Cuddy looked sympathetic. "I know. I mean, I hadn't known all the details, but I knew about them. I'm sorry, Dr. Kutner. Is working with the President reminding you of that?"

"No, I'm okay. I dealt with it a long time ago. I was just thinking, though, of how quickly things can happen, and I was glad I'd gotten some help. They sent me to a counselor at first, of course, as a kid, and I realized later, when I was just going into college, that I still had some things I hadn't dealt with, so I went to a psychiatrist. It really helped me."

Abruptly, the puzzle pieces clicked into place, and Cuddy straightened up in pure fury. Kutner literally backed a step, even though he was bigger and the desk was between them. "You think I need to see a psychiatrist after Tuesday night? No, _House _thinks I do; he's already said so. He put you up to this, didn't he?" She didn't even allow Kutner time for a sputtering denial. "I can't _believe_ this! Taking advantage of something like your past just to try to get me to agree to something _completely unnecessary_!" Her voice was rising.

Kutner fumbled for any kind of save here, although he knew this conversation was irreparable. "It really _helped_, Dr. Cuddy. It helped me a lot. Talking things out helps you work through them, and it doesn't take years for something traumatic to happen."

Unfortunately, his words only gave her further confirmation to the source of his errand. "_My_ parents are still perfectly alive, Dr. Kutner, and I am having _no_ problems dealing with Tuesday night. It was unpleasant, but it's over. It wasn't traumatic, and I do _not_ need therapy."

Kutner stared at her, taking in the deeply buried edge of hysteria and denial beneath her tone, noting her flushed face and accelerated breathing. He was ten times as convinced as he had been before this confrontation that she _did _need therapy. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," he tried.

Cuddy shook her head. "I can't believe that House sent you. Or that you agreed." She hesitated, considering that. "Did he pay you to do this?" Kutner was unable to hide the quick flicker of expression across his face. "Of all the . . . that's a new low, even for him. Get back to work, Dr. Kutner, and tell House . . . no, forget about it. I'll talk to _him_ myself. And I apologize for his insensitivity to your past. I'd expect him of all people to have more empathy." She stopped, suddenly suspicious. "What do you have in your pocket that you keep fiddling with?"

Kutner pulled it out. "A rabbit's foot."

Cuddy glared at him. "You're a doctor, not a 10-year-old kid. Act like an adult and get back to doing your _job_. I'll deal with House myself."

Kutner quickly turned and made his escape. She looked furious. He was careful to avoid picking up the cell phone until he was well out of her sight and even then looked back to check. He pulled the phone out of his pocket. "I apologize. Wish that would have worked for you. House?" The line was dead in his hand. House had already hung up. With a sigh, Kutner headed back for the President.

Cuddy took a few minutes to compose herself, deep breathing, but she only got madder the longer she sat there. For House to think something like this could have a price tag was a new low. She couldn't believe the insensitivity there to Kutner's past, given his own. All for no good reason, too, because the fact remained that _she did not need therapy_. She surged to her feet. Time to go pound that point into his stubborn head. As she exited her office, the secretary was talking to a thin young man who was dressed like any of the myriad of college students around the University.

"Dr. Cuddy?" the secretary hailed her. "This man wants to talk to you."

Cuddy didn't feel like talking to anybody except House at the moment. "Make an appointment," she snapped.

The man stepped out in front of her, his hands and his tone agitated. "I'm sorry; I know I don't have an appointment. I just wanted to know . . . I'm Paul Stevenson. Sam Higgins was my uncle." Cuddy paused, hearing the desperation in his tone. "Please, I just ... could I talk to you just for a few minutes?"

Cuddy studied him, hearing the naked plea in the words. No threat here, but the man obviously had his own questions he'd been chewing over nonstop since Tuesday night's events. He apparently wasn't dealing with this as well as she was, which made sense, as the man had been his relative. She could at least assure him that his uncle had been legitimately out of control of his actions, not evil. She relented briefly. "I can give you five minutes, Mr. Stevenson, but that's all. I have somewhere else I have to be then."

"Thank you," he said in relief. She turned back to her office, holding the door open, then followed him in.


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Fun to see you speculating. Hey, at least I update fairly quickly instead of leaving you on a cliff hanging.

Oh, and one person asked about the cell phone. Wilson borrowed Sandra's to take down to the NICU for pictures; he definitely doesn't have his (it reappears later). I had meant to make that clear but forgot to emphasize it. It has been a hell of a week, to put it mildly. Latest and hopefully final round of computer issues today, in which the new computer, whose pickup was delayed at the computer hospital by additional snarls until last night, set off all warnings at work, who didn't recognize it even with the data from the old computer recovered onto it. Four hours of fun and tech remoting in today. Thrill a minute. Anyway, I have understandably been stressed out and somewhat scrambled this week, and what updates you had prior to this morning were done in a blazing hurry while in temporary use of a strange computer. I needed to accomplish _something_ those days, though, even if just writing fic. I certainly wasn't getting any work done. Since last night, I now have my new computer with 95% of the old data on it, and I'm slowly discovering which 5% is left off. I'm impressed they got 95%, really. The old one fried; they showed me the innards of it on autopsy.

Preview of coming attractions: The meeting between Cuddy and Sam's nephew is really setup for the meeting with several of the rest of his family (remember them and their attitude?) on Friday. Their attitude and Cuddy right now regarding family do not mix, to put it mildly. :) But before that, plenty more medical, plus House and Cuddy, plus the girls, plus Wilson and Sandra. Thursday night continues the eventful string, if a bit less drastic than Tuesday and Wednesday. Updates will probably be fairly quick from now through the weekend due to not many other of my usual activities.

Thanks for reading!

(H/C)

Cuddy sat down behind her desk, the picture of the hospital administrator meeting the public. Yes, she was perfectly in control. She didn't know what House was worrying about. "What can I do for you, Mr. Stevenson?"

Paul stopped behind the visitor's chair, his hands nervously fiddling with the back of it. "I just . . . I wanted to apologize for what happened to you."

"No need," Cuddy replied briskly. "I wasn't hurt at all, and it was over quickly. I am sorry about your uncle, Mr. Stevenson. His death wasn't intentional; they only meant to stop him."

He shifted his feet. "The TV said that he had long-term effects of a head injury, that he probably wasn't thinking straight."

Cuddy shivered, suddenly remembering those too-intense eyes. She quickly snapped herself back to the present. "That's true, Mr. Stevenson. He really didn't have control of his actions. I realized that even then."

"I just keep wondering if I should have . . . I talked to him, called him sometimes. I knew he'd been hurt on the job when he fractured his skull, but he never really seemed different after that. He never had much to say before, though, always just quiet, listening, laughing now and then. Sometimes he'd have a story of some little thing that happened on the job, not a complaint, never making fun of people, just something cute or unusual. He almost sounded like a kid sometimes, but he was never . . ." His voice ran down into helpless silence.

"Sometimes people can snap in and out of psychosis after a head injury. It isn't necessarily obvious all the time. Did you see him regularly?"

Paul shook his head. "I'd never seen him at all."

That drew the sharpest reaction he'd had yet. Cuddy sat straight up in her chair. "He was your _family_, and you'd never even met him?"

"He was. . ." Paul abruptly sat down as if his legs couldn't hold him anymore. "He was kind of the black sheep. Mom - she was his sister - was ashamed of him. They all were. We weren't allowed to talk to him when I was growing up. They didn't even know I'd looked him up on the internet and had been calling him since I came to college."

"Why was his family ashamed of him?" Cuddy asked.

"He was a janitor. And he was slow, they said. Okay, he probably wasn't ever going to make Mensa, but talking to him, he didn't seem like a bad guy, just not like them. But Mom's family is all about status and appearances." He shook his head. "Sam seemed like a nice guy to talk to him. I couldn't believe he did this. And all of them saying things since - I just wanted to know . . . but what would you know about who he was? He held you at gunpoint. But you're the only person I know of besides them who ever actually met him."

_You'll never see your family again. _Cuddy quickly, urgently looked to the picture on the wall. "Are you okay?" Paul asked.

Cuddy looked at her family and took a few deep breaths. "I'm fine. Mr. Stevenson, I can assure you your uncle truly was insane. Apparently from the autopsy that was from medical causes. But he didn't strike me as a bad person. He even thanked us at the end, after he'd been shot." She shivered again. "I think, if it means anything to you, he found some kind of peace at the end. Maybe hitting his head when he fell jolted him out of some effects of his previous injury. His eyes looked totally different then."

Paul looked down at his hands. "Thank you. I . . . I don't know what I wanted. I guess I just wanted the truth, how he died, what he seemed like. My family wouldn't know the truth unless it came in a six-figure car with the right kind of clothes and job. They're saying that they always knew he'd come to a bad end."

"Your family are idiots," Cuddy said bluntly. "I only spent a few minutes with your uncle, but he definitely had legitimate medical problems affecting his behavior that night."

Paul nodded. "Yeah, they're idiots. I just wish I'd met him once. He was kind of a nice guy to talk to. Never expected anything from you; you could just talk." He looked at his watch. "I don't want to keep you past your five minutes." He stood up, then once again looked at her apologetically. "I'm so sorry. I was the one who told him the President was speaking at our graduation. I set the ball rolling there."

"You didn't know," Cuddy insisted. "And no harm was done Tuesday night other than to himself. It would have been nice if he could have gotten help, but he would have faced a lot of obstacles, too."

"Yeah." Paul studied his shoes. "Hate to think of waking up or whatever it's like and realizing you'd done something like that, too. But I still wish. . . Thank you for talking to me," he said again and left abruptly, as if he were trying not to cry. He needed to cry, Cuddy thought. He looked like he'd been holding everything in since Tuesday. Poor kid. Sounded like he had more sense than the rest of his family, though.

She spent quite a while sitting there looking at the picture, getting herself focused again on the present, reminding herself that Sam had been wrong. Tuesday was over, and she could see her family any time she chose. They were all fine. Suddenly realizing how much time had passed, she stood up to go check on House. It was only halfway to the door that she recalled his stunt with Kutner, and her stride quickened, anger surging back in. Her heels tapped out a brisk, annoyed rhythm on the way to the elevator as employees stayed out of the way.

(H/C)

Jensen was standing at the window, looking out across the campus, not seeing anything there. "He's getting worse," he said. "House is working on it, but there's not any real progress yet, and the rate Mark is going, I'm afraid -" He dropped into silence. In the last seven years, Jensen had lost both of his parents, one suddenly and one after a drawn-out illness, as well as temporarily losing Melissa and Cathy in the divorce. Mark through it all had been the one constant of his life, the one always there, even though the death of their parents had rattled his brother equally. The two of them had supported each other, getting through it together. The possibility of a world without Mark was unthinkable to him. He knew objectively that one of them would probably die first, of course, but not this soon, not like this.

"Dr. House is still on the case, you said." Melissa's voice was encouraging in his ear. "Remember, he saved Cathy. Things can still turn around, Michael. And if - if not, we'll deal with it together somehow. But it isn't over yet, not by a long shot."

"I know." He was grateful to someone else for saying it, though. Part of the burden of being a psychiatrist is that even though you know all the techniques and textbooks and ways of coping, they are so hard to objectively apply to yourself. Emotion doesn't care how many seminars you've attended. "How are the kids?"

"Scared." Melissa sighed. "And more on edge and getting on each other's nerves, of course. I wish I could be down there for you."

"So do I," Jensen admitted. "You're needed there, though. I had thought -" He looked back at Mark, who was asleep. Not sound asleep but definitely asleep; Jensen could not possibly have been fooled on that as focused as he was right now on his brother. But Mark looked worse by the hour. No twin instinct was needed now; even the kids would have known he was very sick. His face was even more frightening than the ICU equipment. "I had wondered about bringing them down this weekend just to visit, to let them see him. I'd hoped he'd be better by then, and even if not, they might need to see him again. But right now, he'd scare them just looking at him. I'm stuck wondering if they're old enough to see this." He sighed. "But if they're going to see him, I think it had better be tomorrow, not wait for the weekend. What do you think?"

"I think we need to decide about tomorrow on tomorrow morning," Melissa said. "Things could still get better tonight. But to answer your question, I think Courtney and maybe Cathy would get something out of seeing him, and I'm not sure Brian's up it emotionally."

"That's about what I thought. But we can't possibly split them. Can't leave Brian behind."

"I know. Let's decide in the morning, Michael. Call me early, before everybody's awake."

"Okay." He turned away from the window again. "I've got to go. Mark's starting to wake up." Pam wasn't in the room at the moment, although she had been all day so far. Jensen had convinced her to go take a walk at least around the hospital and get a brief time-out.

"All right. Take care of yourself, Michael. I love you."

"I love you, too. And Cathy." He hung up the call and walked over to the bedside. Mark didn't look any different than a minute ago, but Jensen knew he was starting the progressively longer climb back to awareness. He looked very uncomfortable now, restless even in sleep.

Slowly, eventually, Mark's eyes opened. They were somewhat glazed by this point. "Michael?"

"I'm right here."

"I feel dizzy." Jensen straightened up in surprise. That was the first volunteered, unshielded comment about his physical status that Mark had made since his admission. Dizziness hadn't been on anybody's radar yet, either. Jensen would tell the nurses, but first he tried a followup question.

"How are you feeling other than that?"

"Lousy," Mark admitted. He reached out, and both hands captured his brother's arm. "Are you okay, Michael?"

"Me? I'm fine. You're the one we've been worried about."

Mark's hands explored further up his arm, finding the irregularity of the scar beneath Jensen's shirt. "I'm sorry, Michael. I didn't mean to hurt you. I swear, I didn't mean to." His voice was rising a little.

Jensen's concern was rising even faster. "I know. It's okay, Mark. It was a long time ago."

Mark continued as if he hadn't heard him. "When did you get the bandages off? I'm sorry, Michael."

Jensen reached out with his free hand and firmly hit the call button.


	34. Chapter 34

(A/N) Not as many reviews on 33. I know it's quick posting, but I can also see the stats of how many people read it and didn't review, so I know it had been noticed. Reviews feed the hand that feeds you fic, folks! Here's another, though not the ultimate, clash with Cuddy. Like I said, the ultimate one comes Saturday morning. Next chapter: A real, live diagnosis! Poor House deserves a break on at least one of his problems.

(H/C)

House sat at his desk listening to the unfolding collapse of Kutner's mission with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Okay, so he knew it had been a long shot, but it was the only one he could think of. Cuddy refused to accept his own opinion because he was too screwed up to be objective about the level of screwed-upness of others. Obviously, she wasn't going to listen to anybody else, either. There was always the big boss, her own supervisor, but House knew that forced therapy would do no good. She would never forgive him for going over her head, and all that resentment would sabotage the treatment before it even started. No, she had to want it.

But _how_ to make her want it? How to make her see herself objectively? Simply talking to her, either for himself or by proxy, was getting nowhere. He needed to come up with other methods.

Hmmm. See herself objectively. He wondered if he could surreptitiously record at least audio, even better with video, a conversation between them. Would she realize how near the edge she was if she saw it herself? He hung up as Kutner left her office and then started fishing through his desk, looking for his webcam he'd used before during the contest with the fellowship candidates. Cuddy no doubt would be up to fillet him as soon as she could. Kutner, obviously realizing that, would retreat to 3 West with the President, leaving them a clear field. House worked quickly, getting the camera out and set up on top of his computer, hoping she would be too mad to notice it. He finished preparations, then sat there waiting. Waiting. Waiting. He looked at his watch, surprised at her tardiness. Maybe a donor or a member of the board had run into her with a question or some problem that needed her immediate administration.

He finally switched back to research on Mark, feeling guilty at the time away from the case doing nothing but worrying. Time actually spent working on the Cuddy problem wasn't wasted, but time just worrying and waiting for her with no conclusions was. Damn it, Mark was just as much of a dead end at the moment, and so much was riding on this case, even though Jensen wasn't pushing him.

Cuddy blasted through the door and slammed it behind her, making the glass quiver in protest, startling him out of thought which actually was fully on his work just then. "I cannot _believe _you did that," she snapped, opening fire immediately.

House sighed and sat back in his chair, making sure the webcam was rolling. "I had to try something, Lisa."

"No, you didn't," she insisted. "Greg, this is getting ridiculous. You're projecting things onto me, and it's just your imagination. _I_ am dealing with Tuesday night perfectly fine, because there is _nothing_ to deal with. It's over. Finished. Not an issue." She paced a quick circle in his office, very unlike her. She was always direct in a confrontation, facing her opponent, never just restless. She was also, unfortunately, moving out of line of the webcam. He'd assumed she would be standing right beside his desk as she berated him.

He stood up and tried to surreptitiously bump the angle to cover the open floor, picking a time when she was facing away momentarily. He then walked out to join her in an effort to pin her down in the correct field of focus. She hadn't noticed the webcam adjustment, but she paused in mid whirlwind to assess his stride as he approached her. "Your leg is hurting."

That was so abrupt of a change of tone and subject, as if she'd derailed her own train, that House was speechless for a moment. "It's _always_ hurting," he said finally.

"More than usual. More than this morning even after you hit Wilson." She'd noticed the other effects of him hitting Wilson? That must have been on one of her obsessive checks. She'd seen him walking down on 3 West today, come to think of it. "Have you taken your meds, Greg?"

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know." He honestly had no idea where he was on schedule today. He looked at his watch: 3:15. His leg was giving him hell, come to think of it.

Cuddy shook her head. "Now _that's_ exactly what I was talking about. You are _supposed_ to be diagnosing your patients, part of which includes taking care of yourself to work efficiently, and instead, you keep getting distracted on me. No wonder you're not making any progress. Take your meds, Greg. The Vicodin, anyway. Not the NSAIDs on an empty stomach."

Part of House was still wondering how she could flip from barely contained fury to almost overconcern so quickly. He took out the Vicodin bottle and gulped down two dry, unable to help giving a pointed emphasis to the action. "Good. Now, back to the issue at hand, you are _not_ working at your best because of this crazy notion you've got, and I demand that that stop right . . ." She had started pacing again and slammed to a halt suddenly as her route brought her in direct line of sight with the webcam. "Are you _recording _this?"

House was beginning to think $500 hadn't been nearly enough to offer Kutner. She stalked over to the computer, verified that it was recording, and ripped the webcam off the top of it, pocketing it firmly. She then turned to face him. The barely contained fury was back in spades. "So instead of working, you've been up here figuring out how to record me chewing you out? Planning to set up Youtube? Send it to the dean? To the press?"

"No, I . . . I was only going to show it to you."

She came straight up to him, the height difference suddenly seeming much less. "I. Do. Not. Need. Therapy. _END _of discussion. I don't know if you're trying to make yourself feel better by manufacturing some company for yourself in PTSD, but I've already told you I understand you need it. That _does not mean I do!" _Her voice and breathing were both accelerating again, and she took a few deep breaths before continuing. "And you're letting your patients down by wasting your time on this. And I _still_ can't believe that you actually put a price on sending poor Kutner to talk to me about his parents. You of all people. Of course he'd do it; he'd do anything without question if he thought it would please you, but that doesn't make it right for you to take advantage of his willingness. And to offer money? Suppose somebody tried to pay you to talk about John; what do _you_ think is a fair price for that?" She shook her head and added a sharp-toned tail that stung almost as much as last night's statement that he should have been able to handle things himself. "I'm disappointed in you."

House flinched. So many times he had heard that from John, yet he did not hear it in John's voice now. The present was stronger than any flashback, and hearing it in Cuddy's voice was even worse. He had very early stopped caring what John thought of him.

It was then, of course, that the damned pager went off again. House pulled it out slowly and looked. It was from Foreman. He sighed.

"Which patient?" Cuddy asked.

"Mark. He's crashing."

Her response was pure administrator but with an extra twist to the words for emphasis. "Go do your _job_, Greg. And for once this week, do it without getting distracted by making up imaginary problems for me." He looked at her helplessly, then slowly turned to leave.

"Do you think you'll be home tonight?" she asked suddenly, again with the abrupt 180-degree flip from tightly controlled fury to concern. "You look tired after last night, Greg."

He turned back to face her. She herself looked exhausted. He didn't think she'd slept well at all alone. And even apparently calmer, there was an edge of fragility around her that frightened him. "I don't know," he replied, his own tone as level as hers, as if the former conversation hadn't even occurred. She'd make them both schizophrenic at this rate. "I will if I can, Lisa. I already told the girls earlier I'd come home tonight if I could."

"Okay. Once it's time for me to go home, call me now and then to let me know if you're leaving yet or not."

So she wanted to check on his work by phone from home now? House left the office, trying to shelve the annoyance and, much larger, the concern. He wrenched his thoughts and focus onto Mark. She was right, he was distracted. Damn it, all this was too much at once; _anybody_ would be having trouble juggling it. But he wasn't making things up; she truly needed help, and he had no clue how to get her to accept it. He entered the elevator, trying to forget her stating she was disappointed in him. Think about Jensen instead. Jensen, whose brother was critical, who was counting on House. He couldn't disappoint Jensen too. House had always had the gift of compartmentalization, fortunately. By the time he left the elevator, his thoughts were fairly solidly on Mark's case.

Foreman met him at the door to the ICU room. "I just had to sedate him. He was very confused now and getting agitated. Also, his heart rhythm started getting irregular again."

"Even on the pacemaker?" House asked.

Foreman nodded. "Trying to, at least, and fighting it. I adjusted the settings. Looking at the strips, that's not because of the agitation; it started a little bit before. Jensen hit the call button after he woke up, but the nurse had already noticed on monitors anyway and was heading this way. The arrythymia was medically caused, not emotional effect."

House looked at the monitors, back to an artifically perfectly even rhythm. "Whatever's affecting his heart - and obviously his brain at this point - is getting a stronger grip on it."

Jensen spoke up. "He said first thing when he woke up that he was dizzy." The psychiatrist looked as rattled as House had ever seen him, obviously fighting to hold composure to give them information and also to be there for Pam, who looked even worse. She looked terrified.

"That could have been because of his heart trying to get out of rhythm again," House noted.

Pam took a deep breath. "He didn't know me," she said softly. "I walked into the room, and he had no idea who I was."

"He woke up with his mind back about 30 years ago," Jensen stated. One hand went over to rub his right arm. "He knew me, but he wasn't oriented to the present at all."

"Was that just random or something from childhood that had some emotional impact to it?" Foreman asked, the neurologist trying to plug this in.

"Definitely had emotional impact," Jensen confirmed. That whole episode with him getting hurt and then locking down himself in resentment against his brother afterward had easily been the most traumatic part of their otherwise fairly happy childhood. "He was upset then, but he didn't really start getting agitated until the nurses and then Pam came in, and he didn't know what was going on."

"The synapses remember traumatic events sometimes," Foreman explained. "Those can surface under the influence of the infection. Some people get delirious and hallucinate, others grab onto past powerful memories and relive them. But either way, the infection is definitely in the brain now."

House walked over to look at Mark, safely out and calm again but obviously sick. Cuddy's statement was forgotten; in this moment, the universe distilled down to the critical patient in front of him. "Taub still in the lab?"

"Yes," Foreman said.

"Okay." House was suddenly brisk, a lean column of pure intensity. "None of us are going home tonight until we get the answer here."

"Do you think you can find it?" Pam asked, desperate for any reassurance.

"Yes," House said absolutely. "Foreman, tell the nurses to keep a very close eye on his heart and page us immediately if it shifts again. Then you get the whiteboard and meet me in the lab." He walked out.

He'd told the truth. He wasn't going to quit from now until the diagnosis on Mark, and he knew he'd get it. He just hoped the answer came in time.


	35. Chapter 35

"Negative," Taub said as he looked up from the microscope. "That was the last one on the list. Every suggestion we've come up with tests negative."

"Oh, then _obviously_ we're wrong, and so is his body," House snarled. "He doesn't have anything at all. He's perfectly healthy."

Foreman tried to reroot this differential. "Let's start from the top with the symptoms again and see if anything new comes to mind."

"We haven't got _time_." House paced to a stop in front of the whiteboard and glared at it, his eyes nearly burning holes in the symptom list. "We can't start over."

"Then what. . ." Foreman started, and House stopped him with an impatient hand.

"Just shut up and let me think for a minute." He stared at the symptoms. Think, damn it. If all of this does not equal any of the above alternatives, what else is there? He tried to center his thoughts, then tried mentally rearranging symptoms, making each in turn primary, just for a different perspective. Finally, he opened his mind up to other questions. If he couldn't come up with any more answers, what about other questions? Knowing the right questions always helped a diagnosis.

Suddenly a question formed, one which wasn't anything along the lines he'd expected, but he let himself run with it. Since when had he been so tied to lab tests?

His head tilted slightly as he considered. Valid question, he conceded. Normally he was out in front of the lab in both diagnosis and treatment, using it merely for confirmation. Why was he being so tentative with Mark and going strictly by the book? The question answered itself: Jensen. He was subconsciously worried about getting this one wrong because so much was riding on it for someone he knew and admired. He'd changed his methods to be extra careful, and that had taken the edge off his instinct. It had always been his diagnostic instinct that set House apart.

When he listened to his instinct, he knew the answer here. He had known it from the beginning. He turned from the whiteboard and didn't even notice the stab of pain up his leg on the pivot as he faced the team. "It's Lyme," he stated. "Start treatment immediately."

Neither of them moved. "Um, House," Taub reminded him, "we tested for Lyme first thing. I did Western blot and ELISA both. It was negative."

"It's a false negative," House insisted. "He has Lyme. Should have tried treating him specifically for that instead of wasting time on the broad-spectrum antibiotics for shotgun approach. Start him on doxy stat."

"No bull's-eye rash, and he doesn't remember being bitten by anything," Foreman countered.

"All of which _can_ happen, including the double negative test."

"To have all of them happen in the same case makes the odds longer," Taub noted.

"Welcome to the department of long odds. We see the exceptions here all the time." House impatiently left the lab, the other two flanking him, and headed for the elevator. "The tests aren't 100%, even using both of them. Rash doesn't always occur, just usually. As for the tick bite, we are dealing with somebody who doesn't think he has the right to get sick or feel discomfort. He has to be one of the most likely people I've met to simply ignore local symptoms of a bite, and if it wasn't readily visible - it is a small tick - he might not have noticed in the shower or getting dressed. Tick falls off, but not before the damage is done. He also did twist his ankle running recently, so he was nicely in kick on and tough it out mode anyway. He never would have looked for a secondary cause of anything. He told me himself he was assigning everything to the effects of that."

They entered the elevator, and House stabbed at the ICU floor button. Foreman was considering, then slowly nodded. "It _does_ fit the symptoms for an early dissemination of a Lyme infection. Fever, headache, myalgias, cardiac involvement, now beginning encephalitis."

"Right. It's Lyme. Should have gone with my first guess while we were testing everything." House's fingers played out a complicated rhythm on his cane. He was thoroughly annoyed with himself. "Screw the lab."

"Should I keep running tests while we start treatment?" Taub asked.

House shook his head. "Nope. We've already tested for all candidates. If it isn't Lyme, then it's a false negative on something else, and we don't have time to guess at all of them in treatment and allow time for response. He'd die before we finished. It _has_ to be Lyme. We're out of time to be wrong."

"You've got a point," Foreman admitted. "It almost has to be a false negative of something on that list."

The door opened at their floor, and House stepped out, heading for the ICU. The others automatically hung back slightly, subconsciously giving him the lead out of respect. "Foreman, get a nurse. New orders in the chart. I'll talk to the family." House swept into Mark's room purposefully. Jensen and Pam were sitting beside the bed, just looking at Mark, watching him sleep and counting each heart beat on the monitor. They looked up quickly at House's abrupt entrance.

"He's got Lyme disease," House stated confidently. "We're changing antibiotics to doxycycline."

Pam looked at Mark, then back at House. "Lyme disease does _this_?" She'd known a few people who had it, and it had seemed more like a case of the flu.

"Only when you get the bonus version with extra features," House said. "It's usually a lot less severe than this, but with bad cases, it can even be fatal." Pam caught her breath, and Jensen touched her arm. House realized that in his enthusiasm, he had once again phrased things less than sensitively. "I think we've still got time to treat him, though. We're starting the target antibiotic immediately, and that should help a lot."

"He didn't mention being bitten by a tick," Jensen said. He had relief written all over his face, though. He trusted House, and if House said it was Lyme and treatable, he believed him.

"Do you think he would mention it?" House pointed out. "I doubt he even noticed. Probably just got annoyed at a small twinge and decided to ignore it." Pam smiled faintly for the first time, conceding that assessment.

"So he'll be all right?" she asked.

House hesitated slightly. "It _can_ have long-term effects, but the sooner it's diagnosed and treated, the better, and I really think he got bitten back about the same time he twisted his ankle. This hasn't gone untreated for months. Whatever long-term effects he has, if any, will be less than he's having right now, most often general aches, and he could be perfectly fine."

Pam looked at her husband again. "The confusion. . ." she started and then trailed off, afraid to ask.

"That should definitely improve. He's got early encephalitis right now. That and the cardiac symptoms will improve with targeted treatment for the infection. One thing is crucial, though. He absolutely _must_ take the antibiotics as prescribed, even after he leaves the hospital and is on oral ones. He has to finish out the whole extended course, every dose on schedule, even when he's feeling a lot better and thinks he doesn't need them. You cannot stop treatment on this early or skip around with it; it sets it up for a repeat round. You have to knock it totally out."

Jensen and Pam both straightened up firmly. "He'll take them if we have to shove them down his throat," Jensen said, and Pam nodded vigorously.

Foreman joined them then, along with a nurse who had a fresh IV bag. She moved over, changing it out. "Starting treatment now," House said. "He should start improving within the next 24 hours." Assuming, of course, that he was right on the diagnosis. And if he wasn't right, Mark's chances were cooked along with his brain. Encephalitis wasn't anything to waste time on.

Instinct. Screw the lab; it was wrong in this case whatever the diagnosis was. Looking at it objectively, House truly believed this was Lyme. That had been his leading candidate from the beginning. Neither Foreman nor Taub had mentioned the lab tests in front of the family. Good. They'd accepted his argument in the elevator.

Jensen stood up and walked over to House, not taking his hand but meeting his eyes. "Thank you," he said fervently.

"It's my job," House deflected, part of him hoping that Jensen would still be thanking him tomorrow. He turned away, unable to face pure gratitude, and looked at the team. "I want somebody to stay here tonight and keep monitoring him, but I . . . I need to get home now that we've got it." He wanted to stay and watch Mark himself, but there was really nothing more to do. Either they were right or they weren't, everything staked on this one shot. And House had promised the girls - and Cuddy. He looked at his watch. He could still see the girls tonight before their bedtime.

"I'll stay," Foreman volunteered.

House nodded. "Okay. Call me if anything at all comes up. Taub, you can go home." Taub quietly left the room.

"Get some sleep, Dr. House," Jensen advised. House was leaning more on his cane by the minute.

House did feel like he'd been hit by a truck now that the adrenaline surge was wearing off. "I will. I'll be by first thing tomorrow morning to check on him, and I'm available by phone tonight."

"Thank you, Dr. House," Pam said, wanting to express her own gratitude. House gave her a quick, awkward nod, then left the room.

Home. He gave a sigh. The whole concept of home was still a new wonder to him, a place of family and acceptance, a place where he was actually wanted and loved. Tonight, though, there was a tentativeness in his thoughts, some of the old doubts creeping back in. As much as he tried to tell himself that Cuddy was in denial and not fully in control of her words at the moment, he couldn't help wondering if they really were what she had been thinking. He couldn't stand the thought of disappointing her or the girls. He'd disappointed enough other people in life, it seemed, but his new family mattered so much more.

But in the end, he knew he would go home tonight. There was nowhere else to go; he could not turn away from his family like Wilson had last night just because of difficulties. Whatever awaited him there, he would have to face it. He just hoped that Cuddy would declare a truce for tonight in front of the girls. He was so tired.

Up in his office, he collected the piano mat he intended to give to Abby, and then he took out his cell phone and wasted a minute looking at it before getting mad at himself. Coward. He stabbed speed dial 1.

"Greg?" Cuddy answered quickly, a quick edge of _something _in her tone before it was suppressed. Not quite anger. He couldn't place it. "How's it going?"

"Got the answer with Mark - I hope. If I'm wrong, he's had it, but we only have time to try treatment for one shot here."

"I'm sure you've got it," she replied. "You're the great Dr. House, remember?"

She sounded encouraging, at least. Anger seemed to be on hold for the moment, as did disappointment. He could hear the girls in the background. "I'm coming home," he said. "Tell the girls I'll see them soon."

"Good. I'll tell them. Are you okay to drive, Greg? You sound worn out."

"I'm okay. Looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight, though." He couldn't help throwing that in, a silent plea to her that they not fight anymore tonight.

Hopefully she got the subliminal message. "I think we all need to go to bed early," she agreed, and House heard Rachel immediately speak up in the background, "No!" He chuckled, as did Cuddy, the tension retreating somewhat.

"See you in a little while." He paused, then added their customary signoff, but the words were never given without thought, no matter how many times he said them. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she replied, words that never sounded just automatic coming from her either. "Drive carefully, Greg."

He walked to the elevator with half of his mind on Mark, mentally following the doxycycline through his system, and the other half overanalyzing the conversation with Cuddy. He was out of the elevator and halfway across the lobby when Wilson hailed him.

"House!"

House groaned slightly and considered running away. He _couldn't_ run away, he reminded himself. But he was too tired to deal with anything else right now. He turned slowly to face his friend, then couldn't help smiling as the oncologist trotted up to him. Wilson's jaw looked truly impressive.

"Yeah, I know. You pack quite a punch. Were you leaving?"

"Going home," House said pointedly.

"Could you drop me off at Sherrie's? It's right on your way. I was going to call a cab, but since you're heading out anyway."

House couldn't help exploring this further. "You're going to Sherrie's? Round two of last night?"

"No! I just need to pick up my car. They took my keys. Really, no drinks. I promise. You can come in with me and make sure if you want."

House shook his head. "I'm not babysitting you, Wilson. Just asking, but if you did want another drink, it's not like I could stop you."

Wilson shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "So, about that ride."

"Come on," House relented. They walked out together, Wilson automatically slowing to match House's pace.

"I'm going by home, too," Wilson said as he got in the car. "I need to pick up my wallet and phone, and then Sandra and I are going to listen to my messages from last night together. I want her to see for herself that they haven't been checked."

"Have fun," House stated. "I wasn't kidding about 30 or so of them."

"I know. I really do appreciate last night, House."

House pulled out onto the road. "How's the kid?" he asked, characteristically ducking from gratitude.

"Doing fine. He had surgery today, and he handled it well. He's still on the vent, of course."

"He was _trying_ to breathe last night. Couldn't really, but he was trying. That's a good sign for his lungs recovering quickly. He's a strong kid." Wilson looked over at him, trying to analyze any silent comment on the baby's name. As much as he tried to find it, there was none. "Don't you know what I look like by now, Wilson?"

"Sandra told me Daniel's name."

"Presumably Daniel. After her father, right?"

"You really don't know yet?" Wilson asked.

"Know what? I've been a little busy today with other things since hitting you in the elevator." House had left a note for the NICU to page him if the baby developed new problems, but since no page had been forthcoming, he had figured Wilson, Jr., was doing okay and had dropped him off the list of crises demanding his attention.

"It's the middle name that Sandra changed. Daniel Gregory." House's head came up, a smile that was immediately replaced by a look of bewilderment that was nearly immediately replaced by a look that Wilson couldn't quite name. Obviously, House had not known about the name change.

On his part, House along with the pride then replaced by confusion couldn't help feeling a small piece of the tension relax. There was somebody in his circle who hadn't been disappointed in him last night and today. That helped. It didn't come near undoing the hurt of Cuddy's statement, but in some small way, Sandra's silent statement of esteem helped. He just hoped that the kid wouldn't ever himself be ashamed of the name as he went on through life. "She hadn't told me," he said. He quickly dodged off that subject to one less emotionally charged - for him, anyway. "So you talked to Sandra. How's life in the dog house?"

"I'm definitely in it, but she didn't throw me out the door."

"You're still in with a chance, then. Still, don't keep pushing it like a cat to see how many lives you've got. I doubt you have anywhere close to nine."

"I know," Wilson said with such sincerity that House looked over at him. "I have to change things now. No choice. I have to be there for her and Daniel." The car was silent for a minute. "Everybody at the hospital is looking at me like I'm a jerk, though."

House grinned as he turned into the parking lot of Sherrie's. "Welcome to the club from a card-carrying member." He stopped by the door. "Don't get lost tonight, Wilson, but if you do, please leave the cell phone on."

"I'm not going anywhere," Wilson promised. "But yes, soon as I get it, I will leave the cell phone on. Thanks for the ride, House. And - just thanks." Wilson got out quickly and headed into the bar.

House pulled the car back out on the road, going home. Mark diagnosed (hopefully), and Wilson determined to reform (hopefully). Maybe there was some chance of success with Cuddy. But still, he didn't feel like further strategy and maneuvers tonight. He was simply too tired.


	36. Chapter 36

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews. In this chapter, the Sandra/Wilson and House/Cuddy plots have their evening part one. Next chapter, the respective parties have their evening, part two.

(H/C)

As soon as Wilson left the hospital room, Sandra reached for her cell phone, which she had retrieved from him earlier. She spent a minute staring at the main screen, giving him time in case he came back quickly for a few more words or something before leaving, but she was also lost in thought. Finally, she shook herself into action, looked up the number on the internet, then dialed.

"Sherrie's Bar," the gruff voice answered.

"I'd like to speak to the bartender who was working last night."

"Just a sec. _Hey, Kevin! Phone call!_" He didn't move the phone away from his mouth before bellowing out across the room, and Sandra winced as the shout stabbed her ears.

A few minutes later, there was the shuffle of the phone exchanging hands, and then another voice. "Hello?"

"My . . . boyfriend was there last night and got drunk. I just wanted to thank you for taking his keys away and keeping him safe."

"No problem, ma'am. I remember him; he was the only one we took keys from last night. Wednesday's not one of our busiest nights."

"He's calling for a ride there to pick up his car, so he'll be there in a little while." Sandra took a deep breath and fished a little deeper. "I hope he wasn't too much of a problem for you."

"No, he didn't seem like a fighter at all," the bartender replied, and Sandra grimaced at the unintentionally apt assessment. No, Wilson definitely hadn't taken his backbone with him when he bolted last night. "The only problem he gave us," the bartender continued, "was when a woman was trying to pick him up." Sandra tensed up. "He was going in full speed reverse. Knocked into several other people trying to get away from her. The bouncer got him over away from everybody and sat him down, and we called his sponsor. So he's in AA, huh?" The man's voice was sympathetic.

"Yes, he is, but last night there were some things going on."

"Must have been. Anyway, I'm glad to know he got home safely. Wouldn't have wanted his hangover this morning, but that's the price they pay."

"Thank you for looking out for him," Sandra said, switching to winding up the conversation. "He should be there soon for his car. Goodbye." She hung up. The bartender might mention to Wilson that she had been checking up on him, but she didn't mind that. Wilson had himself invited her to check out his story from last night. Of course, he'd specifically mentioned the sponsor, but calling the bar was fair enough. The bartender was also definitely likely to mention the call if Wilson happened to order a drink instead of just asking for his keys. She couldn't keep him from drinking if he wanted to, but maybe a reminder would help him deal with temptation if there was any.

So he had met a woman last night, or rather one had met him, but he hadn't been interested, even drunk. Sandra smiled. That fact added several points in his favor. It didn't balance out his choosing to abandon her and Daniel in the first place, though. He'd been under stress, but that was usually when true colors really came out, and Wilson's flag from last night proclaimed that he still had a whole lot of work to do to be ready for fatherhood and a family. He had come back, but only after he had left, fully intending to keep going. The leaving could _never _happen again, not with their son in the picture. With children, you don't have the option of just deciding being a father is too tough at the moment and resigning the position. It cannot be up for a vote any given hour. Sandra called up the pictures of Daniel on the phone and looked at them for a few minutes, then called Wilson's sponsor.

With him, she was more direct than she had been with the bartender, as Bill had met her several times and wouldn't have to be carefully mined for information. "Bill, thank you for rescuing James last night."

"I was glad to. I mean, I wasn't glad of the reason, but I'm glad he had somebody to call who wasn't in the hospital. How are you and the baby doing, Sandra?"

"I'm okay. My son had surgery today - he's got some congenital problems, but they're fixable. He had a rough time last night at first; thank God we were in a major hospital already." She sighed. "James said he wanted to come back here last night."

"Yes, he did. That was the theme of the whole ride home; he had to tell you he was an idiot. He really wasn't in any condition to go to the hospital, though. I insisted he sleep it off first; he wouldn't have helped things by turning up drunk."

"No, he wouldn't have," she agreed.

"That was still what he was thinking of first and foremost this morning. I had to make him take time for a shower and breakfast, and he walked out without his cell phone or wallet. He was in that much of a hurry to talk to you." Bill hesitated, aware that he was just a bystander to a major private issue between the two of them. In her shoes, he would have been ticked off, too. "He knows he screwed up last night, Sandra."

"I know. That doesn't excuse it."

"No, it doesn't."

"You can't just decide your kids are too much for you to deal with emotionally at the moment and abandon them."

She heard the father awaken in his voice; she knew he had kids of his own. "That's true. It wasn't just the child he felt guilty about, though, Sandra. He was very concerned about talking to you last night and this morning, too."

She sighed again. "Thank you again for picking him up, Bill. I need to go now."

"Okay. I hope your boy gets better. What's his name, by the way?"

"Daniel Gregory. They think he'll be okay in the long run."

"I'm glad. Good bye, Sandra. Take care of yourself."

"Good bye." She hung up and stared at the wall in thought.

So Wilson's story checked out. It wasn't the relapse that bothered her most, though. One relapse under severe stress she could understand, although if there had been several, that would be a different story. What ate at her was the stone-cold sober decision to leave that had preceded it. She flipped back in her cell phone to a picture of the other Daniel, her father. The shot was of both of her parents with her, all smiling, the picture of a family enjoying spending time together. Her parents had come up to college one weekend to see her, and this picture had been taken right before they left. Sunday evening, driving home shortly afterward, they had been hit and killed in an accident, a driver in the other lane having a heart attack and his car veering like an off-course missile to plow through several oncoming vehicles. They had died together, both dead at the scene by the time the cars were pried apart, and one of the paramedics had told her later that their hands had been clasped together. Whatever brief moments - and the doctors assured her they had been _brief_ moments - of pain and awareness remained, they had spent them together, automatically reaching for each other, no struggle, just crossing out of life hand in hand. She looked at the picture and felt tears welling up again. How she wished they could have seen their grandson.

Finally, after letting herself cry for a few minutes, she wiped the tears away and reached for the cup of water. It was only Monday, Memorial Day, three days ago, that she had visited their grave. Wilson had been with her, supportive. Three days ago. An eternity stretched between. When the chips were down, he had not reached for her to face the crisis together. He'd turned away.

Her father had had a brother, although Sandra had only met him a few times in early childhood. Him coming high to her sister's funeral was her outstanding memory of him, even though his appearance there had been brief. A few of the other men had quickly escorted him out. Her uncle was a drug addict, first getting into using cocaine in college, then starting dealing to support his habit. Several rehabs and a few prison sentences had marked a stormy course of continual relapse. Following the funeral, Sandra's father had put his foot down, refusing to expose his young daughter to this, and her uncle was no longer welcome at any event where they were. Still, though, she knew that Daniel wrote to his brother several times a year, and if there ever had been a proven period of reform and sobriety, her uncle would have been allowed to visit. Each letter made that clear, that they were still waiting if things would ever straighten out.

Sandra vividly remembered one conversation when she was 13. She had found her father at his desk writing a letter, and when she asked, he confirmed that he was writing his brother, who was in prison at the moment. Her father never hid from her the fact that he kept writing, even though it was one-way communication. With her own personal memory of her uncle in mind, of him crashing the funeral clearly out of control and _laughing_, she had asked her father, "Why do you keep writing? He never answers you. Why don't you just give up?" It was obvious to her with 13-year-old finality that her uncle just didn't want to get better. She couldn't understand why her father was wasting his time.

Daniel had straightened up from the desk and looked at her, then moved over to the couch. "Come here, Sandy," he said, her parents' private nickname for her. Only they had ever called her that; she had resented it from others even growing up, enjoying the closeness she always had with her parents, unlike some of her friends with theirs. Since the accident that had killed her parents, Sandra wouldn't take it from anybody. It was kept secure as a poignant memory to her of them. She had followed Daniel to the couch, and they sat down side by side. He turned to face her seriously. One of the things she had loved about her parents was that they never talked down to her. "I want you to remember something in life. People are worth something. Even when they seem like failures, they are always worth something. Don't ever just give up on them. I had to come to a point with Dave where I realized that I was putting up with too much from him. He has real problems, and he needs to deal with them. Only he can straighten himself out. We've tried as a family, sent him to rehabs, done everything. There is a time to put your foot down and stop enabling somebody, to say that you aren't going to put up with this and that you cannot overlook things anymore until they really deal with what they're denying. I did that after the funeral, and I wish I'd done it before. I'll always be sorry you had to see that. But I can't help letting him know that I'm still here. If he ever turns his life around, I'm still here, and the door is still open. People _can_ change when they truly want to, and by letting him know I'm still here, I'm telling him that I know he could take that step and really get clean. It's a hard line to draw sometimes, Sandy, but don't ever give up on people. Don't keep enabling them and never accept what's unacceptable, but don't ever just give up."

Sandra leaned back in the hospital bed and closed her eyes. More than anything, she wanted a relationship with Wilson, wanted to be a family and raise their son together. But there were lines that had to be drawn, things that couldn't be overlooked. He had decided last night just to leave them, to walk out on his responsibilities. But then he had come back. She didn't want to give up on him, but he had to grow up for himself. She didn't want to enable him, either, and she had Daniel to think of and protect now. "Where is the line, Dad?" she asked the empty room. "What should I do?"

The room had no answer.

(H/C)

House was assaulted the minute he walked in the door. "Dada!" Both of his daughters rushed toward him, Rachel the faster getting there first and latching onto him with such impact that she rocked his balance, and he flinched as more weight settled onto his leg. She felt it and immediately let go, looking up at him with worried eyes. "You okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine." What a wonderful step to add into homecoming, his girls being careful not to hurt their father as they greeted him. He picked up Rachel to give her a reassuring squeeze, then set her back down to pick up Abby. He couldn't hold both at once while standing. Which they also knew already. Damn it. At least they didn't look disappointed in him tonight, just glad to see him.

Rachel had been focused purely on him, wearing blinders to the surroundings, but Abby after her hug reached out to tap the rolled-up piano mat, which House had stuffed awkwardly under his right arm on his way to the door. He'd known he'd need his left arm free to greet his daughters. "What?" she asked.

"It's a surprise for you," he said.

Rachel ran an exuberant circle on the floor. "Surprise!" she agreed enthusiastically. Cuddy and House looked at each other.

"You wanted to get into that tonight?" she asked dubiously.

"I wanted to . . . just to do something nice for the girls to make up for being gone last night." He had wanted to please _somebody_ close to him. He'd forgotten that this present would have to be handled carefully. Should have known better. Why on earth should he have ever thought one of his plans for today would go right?

Cuddy still looked like she thought this wasn't the time for it, but she didn't protest further. House put Abby down, and Cuddy came up for a quick kiss. "Welcome home, Greg." She pulled away then, leaving him to wonder if it was a quick kiss because of their rated-G audience at the moment or because she didn't want more.

Rachel galloped back up to a halt in front of him, reaching up for the treat herself. "Good surprise."

House thought quickly. "Actually, it is. This is for Abby, Rachel, but in a way, it will be good for you, too. Remember how you got mad when Abby tried to play your piano?"

Rachel straightened up with renewed annoyance. "_Mine_."

"Exactly. Well, Abby's never going to bother your piano again. I brought her her own. Sort of." He put Abby down and limped over to the coffee table, spreading out the piano mat. Abby was fascinated, studying the keys. Rachel looked like she was trying to chase a distant memory. Rachel had seen the piano mat herself, but she hadn't even been a year old yet. Abby reached out to push a key, and House smiled at her.

"Not now," Cuddy insisted. "You need to eat something, Greg. We already ate; I didn't know you'd be home this soon, but I started heating up some soup after you called. We'll have music in a little while, girls." She retreated to the kitchen.

House followed her, calling back over his shoulder to the girls. "Now Rachel, remember that is Abby's. And Abby, you leave Rachel's little piano alone now." He entered the kitchen to find Cuddy getting out a bowl. A sandwich was already waiting on a plate, and the soup was steaming gently on the stove. He came up behind her. "Please," he begged softly, "can we call a truce for tonight, Lisa? I just don't feel like dealing with it, and the girls are watching."

She kept her eyes on her hands, efficiently transferring the soup into the bowl. "Of course. We can call a truce any time you like, Greg. You're the only one keeping this ridiculous discussion alive at all." She turned with the bowl in one hand and picked up the plate with the other, setting them both down on the table. "Here. Not much of a meal, but you need something. I doubt you stopped for lunch today."

No, he didn't believe he had. His stomach growled, joining the general theme of dissatisfaction with him. He sat down, and she got him a glass of water. "Take your meds, Greg."

At that moment, cacophony burst from the living room. Abby had to this point been hitting just a few keys, a soft random exploration, but now Rachel's piano suddenly joined in with all of the pounding volume and emphasis Rachel could give it. No effort at a tune there; she was simply banging the keys, pointedly drowning out her sister. "No!" Abby protested. "Bad 'sic."

House grinned at her assessment - it _was_ bad music - and pushed back the chair. Cuddy planted her hands firmly on his shoulders on the way by. "_Eat_, Greg. And take your meds. I'll deal with it." House settled down into the chair but kept both ears peeled.

Cuddy's voice was sharp. "Stop that!" Dead silence immediately as both girls stopped and looked at her in surprise. "Okay, here are the rules. You will _never_ both play at the same time. Never. If I ever hear a noise like that again, I'll take them both away for a day. You're going to be nice and take turns."

"Me _first_," Rachel demanded.

"And if anybody argues about the turns, that person misses a turn," Cuddy continued. "For now, neither one of you play. Your father just walked in, and he's tired and needs to eat. Let him eat in peace. After that, we'll have a few minutes of music, but Abby goes first."

"No!"

"We'll go back to the nursery and read a nice book together, Rachel. You'll get something to do, too. And then after that, he'll let you play, just for a minute. But right now, nobody plays. Get away from those; I don't want to see you anywhere near them. First one to hit a key, even if it's accidental, loses their turn tonight." She waited to be challenged. The girls both looked at her, then meekly backed away from the instruments. "All right_._ Thank you, girls. Now let's have some peace and quiet while your father eats his soup." She walked back over to look at House, who hadn't made any progress down his meal during that lecture. "_Eat,_ Greg."

He picked up his spoon and took a token bite. Both of the girls were in the floor - in different parts of the floor - looking at other things now, Rachel with Belle, Abby running her hands along books in a bookcase as if wishing she could read. "I think that was a little harsh, Lisa," House said softly.

"So you think we need that noise going on while you eat? That wasn't a duet; it was a duel."

"No, I don't. Just think you could have been a little gentler with them."

"Greg, again, your experiences are skewed. You're too sensitive to some things. Parents _need_ to set some rules and limits for their kids, can't just let them run wild. You know I'd never lay a hand on them. Did you take your meds?"

He sighed and fished out the bottles, taking a full round of painkillers, then resumed eating in silence. Belle came over, much to Rachel's disgust, as Rachel was trying just then to explain to the cat - verbally only - how to play the piano. Belle jumped up on House's good leg and looked up at him with a questioning meow. He pinched off part of the last bite of his sandwich and gave it to her. "Don't feed the cat table scraps," Cuddy said.

House fought down the urge to give her another defiance bite. He was having trouble finishing it off himself, even though he'd been hungry. He took the last bite, then pushed back from the table. "Get up, cat." She hopped down instantly, giving him freedom to rise. Even the _cat_ in this household knew that some things were physically difficult for him. He used the edge of the table to help him stand up, then grabbed his cane and limped toward the girls. "Okay, we haven't got much time before bedtime -"

"No!" Rachel protested.

"But we can have a few minutes. I'll show Abby her piano, so she'll leave Rachel's alone. Rachel, you can have a short book. Go pick one out." Rachel looked at him as if weighing this proposition. "Then after the book, I'll help you a little bit with your piano. Sooner we start, the sooner it's your turn." She considered, then accepted this and trotted off.

Cuddy had taken time to carefully clear the dishes, rinse them, and put them in the dishwasher, but she headed back to the nursery after that, and House moved over to the couch in front of the piano mat. "Come here, Abby."

She climbed up beside him with a small boost, but her attention was on him at first, not the mat. She reached out and touched his good leg. "Dada okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he replied, then caught himself. "I . . .it's just been a long, hard day at the hospital today. I'm okay, Abby." He pulled the coffee table with the piano mat closer. "Okay, the keys are pretty much like the big piano." He reached out and played a simple three notes.

Abby perked up. "Annie!" she identified.

House was confused for a moment, then realized that he had subconsciously picked the opening three instrumental notes of the introduction to "Tomorrow." He'd been aiming for some generic song she knew from her and Rachel's collection of children's movies, but the selection hadn't been deliberate. He gave a wry grin. "You got it, kid." The sun will come out tomorrow. He hoped so, and hoped better times weren't always going to be a day away. Damn it, Cuddy needed to deal with things. He just didn't know how to help her. "Dada?" Abby tapped his arm. He jumped and zoned back in.

"Sorry, kid." That reminded him of Cuddy, too. He firmly planted himself in the present. This was supposed to be quality time with his daughter; plenty of time to stew over Cuddy in a little while. Tomorrow. "Can you play that back for me?"

She reached out and repeated the first three notes, then hesitated, attempting the fourth in the sequence and missing it because the next note in line on the keyboard wasn't the correct one. Undaunted, she progressed further up, finding the right note, then repeating the phrase of 4. He smiled, focusing truly on her now. "Good job. You're good at this." She smiled back at him, then eagerly repeated the line of four notes a few times, then stretched it out. Five. Six. House watched, fascinated, feeling pride swell up in him. His daughter. She was 19 months old. Abby stopped at six notes, considered seven, then decided not to push it. She looked back at him.

"You?"

"You want me to play it?" She nodded, her expression a bit wistful. "You'll get to play like I do, Abby. It just takes time. But you will get there."

She smiled suddenly, a look of pure confidence. "Okay," she said, accepting this as if it were written down in a contract and notarized. House caught himself. He needed to be careful promising them things, didn't want them to be disappointed in him if they didn't happen.

But he really believed this would happen. The kid was good. She was beyond good. His prediction was based on her, not him. Abby poked his arm. "You," she reminded him.

He grinned. "We'll do it together, okay? Put your hands on top of mine." She was sitting between his legs at this point, and she reached out carefully to put her small hands on top of his. Such tiny hands. She was still a little undersized. Abby would be physically unable to play chords of any size now; she wouldn't have the reach.

But that would change as she grew. House started playing, not just single note melody this time, but the full piece, all accompaniment. Of course, the piano mat never sounded like his baby grand, but the fullness of the music was still there. A whole, complete. Abby kept her hands on top of his and drank it in. He ended the piece, and after a moment's silence, she turned around and hugged him fiercely. "Tanks. Nice 'prise."

He returned the hug, feeling part of the coiled-spring tension in him relax. Home. _This _was home. They could work out difficulties; they had to.

Rachel and Cuddy appeared together down the hall a few minutes later. "I didn't hear any music when we opened the door. Are you done?' Cuddy asked.

House carefully set Abby down and nodded. "Your turn for a book, Abby. I'm going to roll the mat up and put it up, okay? We'll give you time with it, but it doesn't need to be out all the time and get things dropped on it and Belle running over it and all." And Rachel tempted, though he didn't say that.

Abby nodded wisely. "Okay."

"Good. Glad you understand." He stood up with a slight wince, rolled the mat up, and installed it in the top closet shelf.

"Come on, Abby. Let's read a book," Cuddy said. Abby headed back to the nursery with her, and Rachel quickly advanced into the area where her little piano was.

"Now, Dada!" She was the picture of pent-up anticipation, her tone demanding.

He made himself wait, although he wanted to give in immediately. Cuddy did have a point. He still thought she had been a little too sharp with the girls earlier, but he knew that he himself had a tendency to be too easy on them. They didn't want to turn out a couple of spoiled brats. "What's the magic word, Rachel?"

She looked at him impatiently, then gave in. "Please."

"Okay." He carefully levered himself down to the floor. Damn it, the leg was hurting tonight. By the time he got there, Rachel's attention was on him.

"Take med'cin?"

"I'm fine, Rachel. Just had a long day. I took some a while ago when I ate; it will start working soon." It should have already started working. Might add a heat patch tonight.

She was still studying him, analyzing the pain. He was the one who reminded her of the piano now. "Don't you want to play?"

"Play!" She collapsed in a happy heap beside him and eagerly banged a few clashing chords on the mini piano. House flinched.

"Not like that. The piano . . . is like Belle, Rachel. If you grab at her and jump at her, she doesn't like it. You have to pet her gently."

Rachel giggled. "What's the name?"

"Name? Oh, you mean the piano?" He thought quickly. "What do you think its name is?"

She shook her head. "You say it."

Great. He tried to think up an acceptable name for a 2 1/2-year-old's standards. "Disney."

She smiled. "Disney. Okay, Disney." She reached out with almost exaggerated care, trying to stroke it softly, and still, of course, wound up with clashing noise. She then tried the pattern she had been struggling to learn, tried it in completely the wrong place and at the wrong key, and it still sounded wrong. Frustrated, she banged on the keys again.

House gently pulled her hands off. "Take this note here. This is C." He struck it. "Remember that, Rachel. This is C. It helps you find things so you know where to start playing. That pattern always starts on C."

"C," she repeated. She played it several times, and then he pulled her back and waited a few seconds.

"Okay, Rachel, see if you can find C."

She studied the keyboard and stabbed at random, hitting a black note. House fought back a sense of impending doom here. He knew how much Rachel wanted this, and more and more, he was starting to question whether she had any musical sense at all. Yes, she was young, but still . . .

"Rachel, C is a white note. Always look for C on a white note. That way, you can rule out half of them in searching. It's in the middle. Look at the way the notes are around it. It's the only one that looks like that right in the middle." He played C again, let her play it several more times, then gave her a break. "Okay, find C." She got closer that time, but still missed it, hitting all keys around. He tried showing her the way the black and white keys were arranged there, so distinctive to him that it might have had a neon arrow pointing, but she still couldn't find it unless he had played it right before. She was getting more annoyed.

House sighed and made, for him, a severe sacrifice. "Rachel, let's try something else here." He started to push up, then gave it up. He couldn't stand prying himself off the floor right now in front of her eyes when she was already feeling let down by her piano time with him. "Rachel, go over to Mama's desk and open the top drawer, okay? There's a black marker. I know you're not supposed to bother the desk or use the marker, but this once, it's okay. Bring it here." She retrieved the marker, and House opened it and then, almost with surgical care, wrote a C on the appropriate key. He cringed as if feeling the little piano's pain. "There, Rachel. Now you can find C."

Rachel reached out eagerly and hit it with vigor several times, glad to be on the note her father wanted her on. "Gently," House reminded her. "Like petting Belle." She played it again more softly. "Good. Now, the pattern I was showing you the other day starts on C. So that's the first note." He played the brief snatch of melody, then gave her a turn. She found C immediately - at least that idea had worked - but the notes after were hesitant, and she missed the third one. Even with the pattern rooted by the marking on C, she was having trouble with it. House demonstrated again, and Rachel tried again. Finally, she had it right, but the whole impression was laborious, not melodic. She was still thinking between each note. She knew it wasn't like his playing, too. Her look of frustrated determination deepened.

House was suddenly, overwhelmingly exhausted. "I think that's enough for tonight, Rachel."

She quit without much of a fight and turned to him. "I want play like you."

"I know. Rachel, playing the piano takes a very long time to learn. It's not something that easy,.and some people are still better than others. Everybody has things they do better than they do other things."

She shook her head vigorously in denial. "No! I want _this_." She kicked the piano for emphasis.

House straightened up, his own tone a little more emphatic. "Rachel, don't _ever_ kick a piano. Never."

Cuddy and Abby were heard coming down the hall. "All done?" Cuddy asked. House nodded. Cuddy thought sympathetically that he looked like he'd been in a battle. The contrast between this and the end of Abby's lesson was night and day. Abruptly she noted the marker lying on the floor. "Rachel, have you been in my desk?"

"I told her to," House intervened quickly. "I told her to get me the marker, just this once. She knows that isn't allowed in general."

Rachel nodded. "No. Stay away."

Cuddy looked at him. "Why did you want the marker in a piano lesson?"

House flinched again. "I was marking middle C so she'd know where it was."

She stared at him. "_You_ _wrote_ on a _piano_?" She couldn't believe that House had managed to make himself do that; he'd rather hitchhike to Canada than desecrate a piano. He and Rachel really must have had a tough session.

"Just this once," he replied mournfully. "Rachel, you don't _ever_ write on a piano. This was an exception."

"Okay," she agreed.

Cuddy's expression softened. House looked absolutely worn out, discouraged, and in pain. "Time for bed, girls. Past time, really."

"No!" Rachel predictably objected.

"Shut up," Abby said.

House grinned but jumped in before Cuddy could. "Abby, you don't tell your sister to shut up. That's bad manners." He looked around for something to help pry himself up off the floor with and settled for a leg of his own baby grand, reassuringly nearby. By the time he got to his feet, the whole rest of the family was watching him. "Maybe we could take a hot soak after the girls get in bed," Cuddy suggested.

House nodded wearily. He looked down at Rachel, standing near him, but he wasn't sure he could handle carrying a girl down the hall at the moment. "Come on, Rachel," he said. He started for the nursery, and Cuddy carrying Abby came with him, Rachel trotting along in the rear.

After a few minutes, Belle emerged from under the couch, where she had retreated from the noise. She walked over and sniffed at the marked key on the piano, her ears flattening as she smelled the ink. Suddenly she spotted the capped marker on the floor. Happily, she pounced on it and chased it in a happy clatter across the living room.


	37. Chapter 37

A/N: Had time to write down another chapter while waiting on work. Things are a bit slow this week. Thanks for all the reviews!

ETA: Cuddy's message to Wilson from Wednesday night is found in chapter 23.

(H/C)

Wilson hurried out of the elevator onto the OB floor. The errand at the bar hadn't taken long, but he had spent some extra time at their place, stripping the sheets off her bed, sheets which now smelled like him and alcohol as well as like her, and putting clean ones on, then tidying up the apartment. It never made it to untidy; he was obsessive about that. But he had tried to erase all physical reminders of last night's failures before she got home to see them. Of course, that had kept him later than he meant, as did buying a teddy bear in the gift shop. He didn't realize the time until he looked at his watch in the elevator, and he couldn't exactly push the car along faster then. He just hoped she hadn't wondered if he'd run out again.

Sandra was slumped in the bed, her shoulders shaking silently, and Wilson quickly crossed the room to her side. "I'm sorry, Sandra. I'm here. I didn't mean to take that long. Just straightening up a few things at home." She looked at the clock in surprise, and he realized that she hadn't even been aware of the time. "Are you okay?" He reached for her, then hesitated, his arm hovering in the empty space between them.

She sniffled and ran one hand over her eyes, and Wilson pulled out his handkerchief and offered it. She took it, wiping the tears off and then blowing her nose. "I was thinking about my parents."

Oh. He knew how close she had been to them. "Were you wishing your father could have seen his namesake?"

She nodded. That and wishing that her father could have seen his namesake's father. She would have given a lot for an objective, even somewhat challenging viewpoint here. "Did you get your car?"

"Yes. And the phone. And, now that I had my wallet . . ." He pulled the teddy bear out of the gift shop bag and handed it to her. "It's for Daniel, really, but I wanted you to see it. I'll take it down there later to go in with him."

A wavering smile appeared as she studied the bear. "I'll go down tomorrow and see him myself. I've been walking to the bathroom and back this afternoon."

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Sore." She ran one hand across her abdomen. "Nice to see my toes again, though."

"You don't need to walk clear down to NICU," he started, automatically falling into lecture mode. "It's only about 24 hours since surgery, and they were going as fast as they could on cutting. You need to take a wheelchair, at least as far as the door before you have to get in scrubs."

"I was going to already," she said simply, derailing his lecture in mid point. He realized what he was doing and stopped. Had to remember not to lecture her; the scales had been completely flipped between them, and he'd been trying to re-establish normal by defaulting to old patterns. If anybody had a right to lecture, it was her. She never did, though. He was amazed sometimes how she could talk about things, even difficult issues, without sounding patronizing. Jensen had been trying to work on undoing that button with him. He had formerly used it as a shield against bilateral conversation.

"I, um, got the phone." He pulled it out and offered it. "I still haven't checked messages; I wanted you to see them first. House said he had left about 30." Wilson doubted it - sounded like a standard House exaggeration - but he was sure House had left several. He'd really rather have listened to them alone, but he knew that she needed this. He didn't want there to be any remaining question in her mind that he'd really decided to come back.

Sandra reached for the cup of water and took a few swallows, then accepted the phone. She switched it on and held the screen where they both could see it. 33 messages. 38 missed calls. Wilson sighed.

Sandra turned the speaker on and dialed voicemail, and they sat there together listening, Wilson more and more wishing he had a portable hole into which to disappear. The early ones weren't too bad, one from the neonatologist, all the others from House, just initial updates on the baby. House's messages grew progressively more worried and then angry as the night progressed. Wilson closed his eyes and cringed. It was all right there in his friend's voice, all the frustration and concern, everything Wilson had put him through. No wonder House had hit him.

The next one was from Cuddy, and Wilson was startled into opening his eyes and actually looking at Sandra before that one was half played. He opened his mouth, failed to find an adequate word, and shut it again. Sandra looked stunned and deeply worried herself. A few more from House. The last one was the last chance message, House telling him he was on the way down to talk to Sandra, and it had Wilson shrinking into the chair again. House obviously gave up after that. Wilson wondered how many messages he himself would have left if House had walked out and stuck Wilson with his family crisis. Wilson knew he would have given up in disgust long before, and the last one would have been a lecture, not a final chance. He was amazed that House actually had left him 31 messages. The other man hadn't been exaggerating.

Sandra's voice broke into his thoughts. "James, I swear, if you ever belittle that man again, I'll hit you myself."

Wilson shriveled another few sizes. He really was impressed with House, not just medically, which he always was, but relationally. "I know. He was there and I wasn't."

"Not only that, he's obviously dealing with a crisis with Cuddy, too. Already was even last night."

Cuddy. Wilson's head came back up. "I've never heard her sound like that. She can be sharp, but not right on the edge of irrational. House warned me to look out for her this morning, too."

"Have you seen her at all since Tuesday night?" Sandra knew about the assassin, of course. It had been all over the TV news.

Wilson shook his head. "I've been busy with you. And then not with you," he added before she could remind him.

"House has to know she's having problems, but still . . . I wonder if we should let him hear that message." If Cuddy was leaving that as a one-time message to Wilson, Sandra also wondered what sort of barbs had crept into her more frequent interactions with House, particularly if he was trying to suggest that she get help. Sandra couldn't imagine that he _wasn't_ trying to suggest that Cuddy get help if she was this upset after Tuesday night, and Cuddy's reaction to any such suggestion was also predictable. Poor House.

"Believe me, he knows what she thinks of me." Wilson was suddenly taking this morning's warning far more seriously.

"Even so." Sandra picked up the cell phone, then put it down. "I won't call him right now. Either he's staying late wrapped up in another one of the cases, or he went home. She'd be there, and he needs rest anyway. I'll ask him tomorrow at some point about the message, whether he wants to listen to it. I've never heard her sound anything close to that either, and I've heard her firing people." She returned the cell phone to Wilson. "Don't delete that one."

Wilson quickly started deleting the others, and Sandra watched him, chewing her lower lip slightly as she did when she was thinking. He took as long as he possibly could on the task, then carefully pocketed the phone before meeting her eyes. He was afraid to ask, but he had to know. "What are you thinking? You know now that I really came back before I heard the messages."

"Yes, you did," she agreed. She sighed. "I'm too tired for this tonight."

"Give me something, at least," he objected.

"I already have, James. What I'm thinking right now is that I'm tired, and I'm hurting, and there is no way we're going to get things solved in 10 minutes of conversation, so let's not try and fail at the moment. We could probably both use a good night's sleep tonight." She reached out and hit the call button. "Go on home, James, or up to your office at least. Your back will be killing you if you sleep in a visitor's chair. Come back in the morning."

He felt a sharp pang. "Don't you want me here?" He saw the flare of anger in her eyes, quickly damped back down, and he knew immediately that it had been the wrong question.

The nurse stuck her head in the room. "Can I get you something, Sandra?"

"A pain pill," she requested.

The nurse nodded. "You really shouldn't let them wear off like that. You ought to know better. I'll be back in a minute."

Wilson suddenly looked at her more closely. She really _was_ hurting and worn out, he realized. She had gone past time for her next pill. She had wanted to hear the messages and talk to him without any chemical component to the conversation. She'd also been crying when he came in, and that combined with fresh abdominal surgery combined with the meds wearing off probably hadn't helped, either. "I'll go home for tonight," he agreed. "But my cell phone is on. I will be back in the morning, Sandra." She nodded, and that time he caught the hope and uncertainty mixed in her eyes. He reached out and bumped her arm awkwardly. "Good night, Sandra."

She relaxed a bit, relieved that he wasn't fighting it. She really didn't feel up to anything more tonight. Today had put her through the mill as much as last night had, just a slightly different mill. "Good night, James."

He picked up the sack with the teddy bear and walked out, not missing the nurse's pointed look at him as she came back in. He had wanted everything solved once the messages were heard, but he was realizing even more that they had only explored the tip of the iceberg. Which was nobody's fault but his own. Wearily, he headed for the elevator.

(H/C)

House turned on the hot tub in the big bathroom and sat on the toilet watching it fill. Cuddy entered the room from a final check on the girls. "Sound asleep," she said in answer to his silent question. "I doubt they'll be bothering us for the next little while." She studied him. "How did piano lessons go?"

He sighed and starting undressing. Might as well feel awkward physically, too. "We definitely need to keep them separated while I'm working with one of them."

"That bad?"

"Abby was amazing. She's not only talented, she's intelligent and intuitive at the same time. And Rachel . . . " He paused to wrestle off his socks. "Rachel isn't. I don't think she's necessarily below average mentally for 2 1/2, but she's not close to Abby's level. Her frustration threshold and her attention span are a lot shorter. And musically, it just isn't coming together. We've been doing this - when I could - for six months since we gave her the piano, and she still was totally lost on some simple things we've been trying all along." He let the frustration pour out into this safe outlet. He and Cuddy at least could talk about _this_ without disagreeing or knocking her into hypercontrol. At least, he hoped so. "But she wants this so much. She was looking at me like she wanted me just to _give_ it to her. I _can't_." He stood up too abruptly to take his pants off and flinched as the leg yelped.

Cuddy was looking thoughtful. "You know, Greg, I wonder sometimes how much she wants it. She enjoys listening to your music, but when it's just for herself, she likes to bang, too. I think what she really wants is to be like you. The music is just what she associates with you."

House felt a wave of confusion. Of course it was the music Rachel wanted. Music was . . . music was indescribable, the uninhibited language, able to express everything that words couldn't, never misunderstanding, never unavailable, taking all stress and pain and worry without ever wearying of it and recasting them as beauty and order. There was _nothing_ like music. Who _wouldn't_ want it? "It's the music," he insisted.

"I think it's you. Anyway, we agree that Abby is more musically talented. Rachel needs to find something else to share with you that she's better than Abby at. I really think if she saw you doing something else well regularly, she'd accept that as a substitute, and being less good at piano wouldn't bug her as much."

House grinned, suddenly relishing this conversation, this _normal_ conversation between them, working together, talking about their children. It was almost like old times. "Well, let's see. Short list. She can't very well be a doctor at 2 1/2, so I guess I'd better start teaching her video games." That pretty much summed up his areas of competency.

Cuddy switched gears abruptly, studying his leg. "It's a little swollen tonight, Greg. You did twist it some hitting Wilson, didn't you?"

He sighed again. From competency to crippled in one easy step. "Yes, I did. But it was worth it."

She smiled herself but with an almost predatory look. "I need to talk to him tomorrow."

"He knows he screwed up, Lisa. I'm sure Sandra's made it apparent, too."

She finished a gentle exam of his leg. Even now, when he could feel more tension than usual in her fingers, her touch always eased it a little. "Get in the tub, Greg."

He complied, easing down with a sigh into the steaming water, feeling the damaged muscles slowly unknot. Oh, that felt good. "You, too, Lisa."

"Got to get undressed first." She started unbuttoning her blouse but also started pacing circles in the bathroom floor. "_Wilson_." She made his name sound like a curse. "He didn't just screw up last night, Greg. He _abandoned_ his _family_. You can't just do that! Not when you have kids. He needs that point pounded through his thick skull." Her fists tightened as if she would like to volunteer to do the pounding.

"Sandra will bring it home better than you could. I agree with you, but it's Sandra's fight, and we need to let her be the front lines."

Right then the phone rang. House started to shift, and Cuddy stopped him with one imperious gesture. "_You_ stay there and soak your leg. You need this tonight." She whisked out the bathroom door, heading for the living room. House wished luck to whomever was on the other end of the line.

It was obviously the hospital, some administrative tangle. He caught the words ER and coverage. Her tone was far too tightly controlled with far too much annoyance spilling over the edges. He settled down into the water, soaking his leg, trying to think again of _any_ strategy that might work with her. Talking to her himself hadn't worked. Others talking to her hadn't worked. Tricking her hadn't worked. He knew good and well that leapfrogging over her in chain of command to take it up with the big dean over the whole university wouldn't work. Bringing it up at a board meeting to multiple people wasn't even an option; she'd kill him right there in front of the whole table full of witnesses. Some of them might enjoy the show, but it wouldn't help her issues. What on earth was left?

Cuddy finished verbally eviscerating whatever poor employee was on the other end and slammed the phone down. He clearly heard the bang through the open door. A few seconds later came a sharp shuffle, a crash, and a "Damn it!" that risked waking up the girls.

House scrambled out of the hot tub as quickly as he could and limped into the hall, dripping and naked, clutching his leg for support. He hadn't taken time to grab his cane. "Lisa! You okay?"

She was standing in the end of the living room right before the hall, looking upright, undamaged, and pissed off. The marker twirled between her fingers. "This was in the middle of the path, and it rolled under my foot. I nearly killed myself." He cautiously approached, inspecting for any kind of actual injury other than to her pride. "I'm _fine_, Greg," she snapped. "I tripped and caught myself on the wall."

House's shoulders sagged. "My fault. I should have picked that up." He'd been so focused on hauling himself off the floor earlier that he'd forgotten all about the black marker.

Cuddy shook her head. "_You_ didn't leave it there. You had it clear over in the corner." She looked around. "Belle!" she demanded. No white cat appeared. "Bad cat! What the hell do you think you're doing? _Any_ of us could have stepped on that, the kids or Greg. Rachel could have galloped over it and broken something. _Get out here!_" House saw the underruffle of the couch quiver, then still. He said nothing. He couldn't blame Belle; if he thought he'd fit under there, the retreat from everything would have tempted him, too. Cuddy gave up on the cat and switched attention to him. "You're dripping on the floor. And where's your cane?"

"In the bathroom. I thought you were hurt."

She walked quickly past him into the bathroom, emerging with his cane and two towels. Handing the cane and a towel to him, she began carefully tracking down each drip on the floor with the other. "I'm fine, Greg. Not hurt at all."

Yeah, just fine, he thought. He was afraid to ask about the phone call. He dried off and then wrapped the towel around his waist. Hopefully none of the neighbors had gotten a glimpse of this show through the window. Cuddy took a good five minutes on floor patrol but finally decided it was dry and stood up. "Did the soak help your leg, Greg?"

He had to stop and think for a minute. Yes, definite improvement over a little while ago. "Yes, it did. It feels a lot better. You never got a soak yourself, though, Lisa. Why don't we get back in?" She was a walking advertisement for the need of relaxation methods.

"No, I already started draining it. You're the one who needed it, anyway." She returned her mopping towel to the bathroom. "Let's go on to bed."

Maybe she would slow down there. She looked as exhausted as he felt; he was sure she hadn't gotten much sleep last night. "Okay. Good idea." He went on into the bedroom, exchanged his towel for a set of sleep pants and a T-shirt, and then sat down on the edge of the bed and got out his meds.

Cuddy had picked up his towel and taken it back to the bathroom, but now she came back into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind them. "Don't take the sleeping pill just yet, Greg," she said as he got to that bottle. He put it back down and gulped down the rest. In the next moment, her hands were on him, feeling, exploring, claiming. "I missed you last night," she said in a husky voice, and House tried to push aside the worry at least temporarily and meet her enthusiasm.

(H/C)

Wilson stood in the hall of the apartment, looking mournfully toward the master bedroom, _her_ bedroom. The only night he had spent there in the last six months, he had been drunk and didn't remember it. The temptation to sleep in that bed tonight was almost overpowering. Just to be closer to her, to be among her things. She never would have to know. After a few minutes, though, he turned to the guest bedroom on leaden feet. He went in, turning down the bed for the night, then stopped. Going back out to the laundry hamper, he fished up her pillowcase from the bedding he'd changed earlier. He buried his nose in it. A whiff of himself, the bitter regret of alcohol, and underlying it all, most powerful, the scent of her. He took the pillowcase back to his own bed with him and, holding it like a teddy bear, soon fell over the edge into sleep.

(H/C)

Jensen and Pam sat silently in the two visitor's chairs, watching Mark. There was no change yet, either positive or negative. He still looked critically ill. Pam gave a weary sigh, and Jensen looked over at her. "You could go back to the hotel room. House has it now; he'll get better. I'll call you if he wakes up."

She shook her head firmly. "I want to _see_ him getting better. I need to talk to him." She needed to know that he would know her. Having her husband completely lost on her identity, confused and agitated, unwilling to accept her comfort earlier had scared her like nothing else in her life. That scene before Mark had been sedated was burned into her memory. She _needed_ to know for herself, not just words from a doctor, that things had turned around. "You know, you could go back to the hotel room yourself, Michael."

He smiled. "Touche. Okay, we'll sit here and watch him together." Even though Jensen was the one person in the room earlier Mark had known, he'd still been badly frightened himself. Intellectual knowledge that the case was solved hadn't thawed into emotional relaxation quite yet.

"Is Dr. House that good?" Pam asked, seeking reassurance even though she'd just said she wasn't going to take House's word for things.

"He's brilliant," Jensen replied. "He never would have left the hospital tonight unless he truly believed he had it." They sat there a little longer in silence. Pam's eyelids were drooping in spite of herself. "We could take naps here while we wait," Jensen suggested. "You get an hour, then I do. Nobody has to go anywhere."

Pam looked at her husband, then at her brother-in-law. She felt absolutely wrung out. "Promise me, Michael. One hour, that's it."

He nodded. "I promise. I'll hold you to it on your end, too."

"Okay," she relented. She leaned back in the chair, her eyes falling shut. "Thanks for being here for him, Michael," she said drowsily, right on the edge.

"That's what family does."

"I know. Thanks anyway."

"You're welcome," he answered. She let herself fall off into sleep, and Jensen looked at his watch, then at the monitors, then at Mark's face. He sat there, a weary sentinel, sharing the watch with Pam as they waited for some sign of improvement.

(H/C)

House lay in bed trying to catch his breath.

He and Cuddy did enjoy a regular and even vigorous, with appropriate care for his leg, sex life, but she had been different tonight. It was as if she had been channeling fear, frustration, _something_ into her actions, as if she wanted to possess every inch of him with an intensity and urgency that went beyond love. He'd been perfectly willing and trying to keep up with her, but she had seemed almost possessed by even more than the things he knew about tonight. That hadn't been making love. He wasn't sure _what_ it had been, but he knew that something other than pleasure had been the subconscious goal on her end. Not that she had been violent, but she had been _desperate_. As an unintentional side effect, that workout had pushed his leg in ways that they didn't usually, and the pain was ramping up again after the soak.

Which annoyed House no end in addition to the worry. As a man, he felt like he shouldn't need to complain that his wife had been too rough for him. Thirty years ago, he would have loved a workout like that and taken it as a challenge to match her intensity on his end. But it wasn't thirty years ago.

He still hadn't taken the sleeping pill. Maybe, with her sated and finally relaxing, he could slip an extra Vicodin unnoticed at the same time. "Lisa," he said softly. "Not that I don't like you lying on top of me, but I need to get the zolpidem before we go to sleep."

She didn't answer, and he realized suddenly that she already _was_ asleep. She had fallen asleep while he was recovering.

Great. Just great. Now what was he supposed to do? He wasn't still inside her, but she was lying mostly on top of him on the left, fastened onto him like an octopus. Forget getting pills; simply shifting in bed would be a challenge. He looked down at the dark mass of her hair below his chin, and he reached up with his right hand, the one part of him freely mobile, and touched it. Even with the present issues, he still couldn't believe that this was his life, that he had the right to touch her and have her in his bed tonight and every night.

His leg prodded his consciousness, reminding him that there were more problems at the moment than just hers. House tried to reach over awkwardly to the nightstand, to the top drawer that held his pill bottles when he was in bed, but they had shifted more toward the middle in their exercise, and he couldn't make it. He tried to wiggle over gradually in bed. Nope, that wasn't working, either. She was deeply, far more deeply than usual, asleep. This was like lying under a sandbag. He finally gave up and lay there, letting his mind run over her behavior, looking for _any_ strategy that might work. Of course, he knew that this turn-about was only justice after he himself had denied issues and dodged therapy for years.

He himself. Hmmm. He chased that thought line for a while. Cuddy had bribed him to get him into therapy. He hadn't tried bribing her yet. Perhaps that would work. He started mentally shopping, trying to think of some offer that would be so spectacular that she couldn't refuse it.

The hours rolled along, his mind refusing to shut down in spite of his tiredness, his body absolutely pinned and not liking it. She never moved. At least _she_ was getting a good night's sleep tonight. About 2:00, he heard the girls on the monitor. They still needed attention once or sometimes twice a night. With more motivation than his own comfort now, he firmly pulled his body out from under Cuddy and limped into the nursery. The girls seemed delighted to see him, glad to have him home tonight, and they settled back into sound rest themselves after he'd changed Abby's diaper. He stood there for a few minutes watching them, drinking in the sight of his family. Wilson was an idiot; this was better than any alcohol he'd ever tried in his life. _His family_.

He finally went back into the bedroom. Cuddy still hadn't woken up, which was odd itself, but she was restless now, her hands probing. He touched her, and she calmed down instantly. House gave a quick check of his cell phone - no messages about Mark - then downed another Vicodin and the sleeping pill, although he debated on that. With Cuddy this far out tonight, he was obviously on call with the girls. On the other hand, they had the dose cut way back at this point. It wouldn't knock him out, just keep him from lying awake and help shut down his hyperactive mind, and he knew he had to get _some_ sleep tonight. After taking it, he climbed back into bed, and Cuddy immediately, still sound asleep, Velcroed herself to his side again, her arms coming tightly around him. At least she wasn't lying on top of him this time. House closed his eyes and finally fell asleep.


	38. Chapter 38

A/N: We now arrive at Friday morning. 24 hours until THE showdown. :) Thanks for all the reviews.

(H/C)

It was a long, weary night in the ICU room. Foreman looked in every hour or so, obviously keeping a close eye on this patient who mattered so much to his boss. There were really no changes, though. Mark was absolutely still, looking more unconscious than asleep even after the sedatives would have worn off. He wasn't showing improvement yet, but as Foreman told the family once, the fact that he was not getting worse was encouraging, since he had been steadily and rapidly getting worse all day yesterday. About 3:00 a.m., Jensen thought he could tell a change, although he had nothing but instinct to base it on, and he told Pam that he thought the treatment was working. She was reassured somewhat; she had seen many examples of that twin instinct in action over the years. But she still needed to see improvement for herself.

At 5:10, Jensen was keeping watch while Pam slept for a little while, not that you really could sleep soundly in the chairs. Suddenly, he knew that Mark was starting to wake up, and he reached over to shake her. She came awake groggily, looked at her watch, and realized that it wasn't the end of her nap yet. Alarm hit immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he assured her. "He's waking up."

She came to her feet, getting closer to her husband. To all appearances, he still looked out, but she didn't question Jensen's analysis. Jensen stood up himself but let her take the lead position. Pam waited until Mark started to shift slightly, the eyelids fluttering, and then, impatience and worry getting the best of her, she couldn't resist grabbing his shoulder to give him a shake and hurry the verdict along. "Mark?"

He reacted, moving away from her hands, and she flinched. Jensen waited, anxiety battling instinct. He knew that Mark was just responding to being woken up by _anybody_, that that hadn't been aimed at Pam specifically, but he also knew there was no point in telling her that. They'd find out more in a minute anyway. Pam took a deep breath and tightened her grip on her husband's shoulder. "Mark?"

Slowly his eyes opened, eyes that looked nothing like usual. He looked weak, tired, and ill. They shifted over quickly to focus on his family at the side of the bed. "How are you feeling?" Pam asked after a few seconds.

He looked away, dodging as much as he could physically at the moment. His voice was soft as if it, too, were exhausted, but the words were perfectly clear. "I'm fine. Just a little tired is all."

Pam and Jensen both immediately broke out in ear-to-ear smiles. Mark was back.

(H/C)

House snapped awake abruptly, bolting up from a nightmare of John and Cuddy both in chorus explaining how much and why they were disappointed in him. In the next moment, he doubled over in bed, his hands seizing his thigh as his leg went into a full-blown spasm. Even through the pain, he realized that he was in bed alone. Cuddy was gone. He clawed frantically at his leg, trying to ease the muscle, but the leg had decided that his convulsive awakening was the last straw after its insults last night, and it had no intention of quieting down. House squeezed his eyes shut, but he still felt involuntary tears escaping simply from the pain. His regular meds were in the nightstand to his right, but regular meds did not include antispasmodics, and there was no way he could walk to their bathroom to get anything else. Helpless, frustrated, and hurting, he simply kept trying to massage the spasm out. There was nothing else he could do.

The bedroom door opened a few minutes later, and Cuddy slipped in softly, coming to get work clothes for the day after her regular yoga workout. She was moving on tip-toe that first step, but even in the dim light from the street through the window, she saw enough. "Greg!" Urgently, she raced across the room and switched on the nightstand lamp. Her hands joined his on his leg, but she quickly realized how bad the spasm was, and she let go, running into their bathroom to the locked medicine cabinet with further supplies. She fixed an injection of diazepam and then raced back to the bed.

"Not much," House managed through gritted teeth. "Got . . . to work . . . today."

She plunged the needle home. "Just diazepam, not morphine." Even though it was technically a sedative, diazepam never hit House mentally nearly as much as the morphine did. "Just relax, Greg." She set the syringe aside and then resumed her massage of the leg. House gave up and lay back, his eyes closed. He was sweating, his breathing ragged.

Gradually, the medicine and the massage took effect, and the leg settled down to a medium grumble from its scream. House just lay there catching his breath, enjoying the sensation of less pain and even more enjoying Cuddy's hands. Right now, it almost seemed normal between them, her concern and affection obvious. The gentle, caring, familiar touch from her was almost worth the pain. He didn't want to open his eyes and end it.

Unfortunately, she could feel the progressive release of the cramped muscles as well as he could. She knew he was feeling better. "What happened?" she asked. "You were sound asleep when the clock went off 30 minutes ago."

"Moved too fast," he said shortly.

She studied him, then realized with a surge of guilt. "I hurt you last night, didn't I? We got a little too rough, and that's why it's hurting this morning."

He opened his eyes, his masculine pride still annoyed at that point. She hadn't mentioned pinning him to the mattress most of the night; she obviously wasn't aware of that. But yes, the enforced immobilization after that extreme workout, plus of course waking up as he had, had formed a perfect storm for his leg. He probably would have had a spasm this morning even if he'd tried to get out of bed gradually. "It doesn't matter. I enjoyed it." He hadn't, though, not really. Not just because of feeling physically left behind but because she had seemed almost possessed, and part of his mind couldn't help running a differential on the difference, trying to diagnose it and prescribe the correct drug.

Cuddy sat down on the edge of the bed, gripping his hands tightly. "It _does_ matter, Greg. I _hurt_ you. I am so, so sorry." She leaned over to kiss him, but even the kiss was guilty. "Oh, Greg, I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking about your leg."

House shook his head in annoyance. Yes, that was _exactly_ the primary thought she would no doubt have next time, to be careful of his leg. One reason sex between them was so marvelous was that she was _not_ thinking about his leg. They adjusted and accommodated it but on a level below conscious thought, an automatic fitting together of two souls, scars and all. He didn't _want_ her always thinking and worrying about it while they made love. "Lisa, it isn't a big deal. We got carried away, but I don't want you just feeling sorry for the poor cripple, either."

He saw the lightning - even if guilty lightning - flash in her eyes. "Greg, you are not just a poor cripple, and I am _not_ feeling sorry for you when we have sex."

"Then please, just _drop it._" His tone was almost as tense as his leg had been a minute ago. He couldn't take this conversation on top of everything else.

She hesitated, still with guilt dripping off her whole posture, but at least she didn't say anything else directly. Part of him couldn't help noting the irony that out of all things in the last week from her that had hurt, she was apologizing this morning for how she had had sex with him. Yes, it had hurt, but had he been making a list, that wouldn't have even made the top five. She stood up briskly, obviously having settled on trying to make it up to him instead. "I'll go fill up the hot tub, Greg. You have time for another hot soak before getting ready for work, and it will help." She turned and left the room.

House sighed. And good morning to the universe, he thought sardonically. Friday had only been going on for a few minutes (he refused to count the early morning hours before he had gotten to sleep), but it sure wasn't looking like much of an improvement over Wednesday or Thursday. Furthermore, he felt like leftover take-out from a week ago. He glanced at the clock. It was 5:50 now. He really _had_ to get a solid, several hour stretch of sleep tonight. But before that, the day loomed ahead in his mind. Got to check on Mark. No message about Mark overnight was encouraging at least. House truly thought he had the right diagnosis, but he wanted to see the proof.

Got to keep working on the President; he was _sure_ the man knew some detail that would solve everything and was deliberately hiding it. That wasn't like Mark's case, where House had been tentative and not following instinct. No, with the President, he really was up against critical missing chunks of data, working in the dark at eliminating the alternatives meanwhile. The man was going to cripple himself if he didn't cave soon. House wanted to shake him. Didn't he realize what it was to be crippled? America had in the past had Presidents who were serial cheaters (several administrations), ones who were downright crooks (a couple of times), ones caught in scandals (several times), and most of them had lied at least at one point and been caught out. The country expected their chief executive to be a jerk sometimes. It wasn't worth losing your feet for!

And then there was Cuddy.

House very slowly, inch by inch, moved his legs over and sat up on the side of the bed. Even with the diazepam helping him, the leg turned the volume up a few notches. Cuddy had a point. Another hot tub soak was probably his best chance at being mobile enough to work today. He rubbed the leg for a few minutes, then carefully stood up, holding the toes off the ground and bracing himself on the nightstand. He added weight tentatively, a little bit at a time. Once he was convinced he wasn't likely to fall over in the floor, he grabbed his cane and limped to the big bathroom.

Cuddy was testing the water in the hot tub, which was nice and steaming. "You climb in and just soak for a while, Greg. I'll deal with getting the girls up after I take a quick shower in our bathroom."

"You could get in with me just for a little while."

She shook her head. "I need to move quickly; I'm running late now. You need to take it easy. Those two don't mix in the same tub." She still waited to see him get in, though, worried that he might fall. He saw the thought in her eyes and was annoyed by it. She watched closely, at least not actually reaching out to help, as he clambered awkwardly over the edge and sank into the water. It immediately started its work on his leg, and his features relaxed somewhat.

"Good," Cuddy said. "You stay there, Greg, and try to let it get totally unkinked." She started to leave.

House still wished she would stay. The hot tub simply wasn't as enjoyable alone. He suddenly realized that after her upcoming shower, she would be tied up with the girls, then with the hospital. This was quite likely the best chance he had at private conversation with her all day without risking the world listening in. "Lisa?" he blurted out.

She stopped instantly and turned to face him. She still looked guilty, even while also looking impatient. "What is it? Do you need something else?"

He took a deep breath and launched the shot he had spent over an hour loading while lying awake last night. "I have a deal to suggest. I will go back to clinic duty, all the former hours, work all of them for a year, and make not one complaint at any time during that whole year about it if you will see a therapist."

She laughed at him, sounding genuinely amused, as if he'd intentionally made a joke. "You really are desperate, aren't you?" she asked. Without waiting for an answer to that, she plunged on. "No, Greg. Therapy would be a total waste of my time, the therapist's time, and the hospital's time while I wasn't working. I am not going to do that for no reason at all except you wanting some company for your problems. Besides, you don't need to go back to clinic duty. It's too hard on your leg." With that brisk, efficient, administrative dismissal, she turned and left the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

House sank down into the water until his nose was barely above it. His mind spinning furiously and getting absolutely nowhere, he sat there in the hot tub alone, soaking his crippled leg.


	39. Chapter 39

A/N: Sorry for the delay. It's been a hectic and hassle-filled week.

Notes on timetable: On Three Cases, I am trying to finish the story in November. This week has made that a very optimistic goal but not impossible. But in December, I have another writing project in line, a RL one with potential money, publication, and a real kick on my RL writing resume, on deadline of 12/31, so December is reserved for it, whether Three Cases is done or not. That story is done but still mental. Starting 12/01, it gets written down, groomed, polished, obsessed over first before I pick back up this story, if unfinished. There is another story in the Pranks universe beyond this one, but it will definitely be on hold until after I'm thoroughly satisfied with the RL story and have sent it off. So I'll hopefully finish Thee Cases by the end of the month, should definitely get past the showdown, which isn't too distant. But if this story isn't done by 12/1, it will go on hold for a while. The other project is more important.

(H/C)

When House arrived at PPTH, he went immediately to the ICU, not even swinging by his office first. He was annoyed, and even the visitors and family could tell it and edged away, staying clear. On top of the failure of his last-ditch effort to convince Cuddy, they had had an argument in the garage before leaving for work. They were taking separate vehicles, as they usually did when he was on an involved case, because he might have to stay late or, in case of a quick solution, be able to leave early and get some extra time with the girls. This morning, however, House had started for his motorcycle instead of his car. It was a subconscious decision but one he understood when he thought about it. He wanted to feel free, uncrippled, whole again. The motorcycle gave him that illusion.

But Cuddy had hit the roof. "Are you _crazy_? You can't ride that death trap this morning."

He faced her, digging in. "I'm a lot more careful than I used to be, and it's a nice day. Perfect weather for motorcycling. Anybody who has one is probably riding it today."

She whipped around him and physically blocked his route to the bike. "Anybody else who has one doesn't have a whole piece of leg missing. You've already had a bad spasm this morning, Greg, plus muscle relaxants, and it still isn't baseline. Your balance isn't up to this right now."

Ah, the leg. He hadn't factored today's flareup into his decision. The fact that he knew she was right, that he knew he would have problems riding the bike today, just made him more annoyed. "The leg doesn't have to do anything but sit there still and be attached, and it's just a few miles. I'll be _fine_."

She wasn't giving an inch. "No. Not this morning, Greg. If I have to ram it with my car to disable it, I will, and you couldn't move it past my car fast enough to escape." The bike was indeed in the front of the garage, ahead of the two cars, and she was correct. On her two good legs, she could easily get into her car, start up, and clobber it before he managed to slot it through the gap between the cars. So nice of her to use his status as a cripple against him.

He pulled out his keys. "You'd have to hit me, too," he challenged. She went so pale abruptly that he was concerned. "Are you okay, Lisa?"

"I am _fine_," she snapped. She sat down pointedly on the motorcycle sideways. "But neither one of us is going anywhere until you leave in the car. And even then, I'll call Marina on the cell and explain to her exactly why you shouldn't be riding it today, and if you tried to double back or sneak out of PPTH to get it, you'd have to face her, too. All that in front of the girls."

He stared at her. She was going for full underhanded tactics this morning - enlisting Marina was a low blow. He knew she wasn't bluffing, though. Pointedly, he kicked the tire on her car on the way by, deliberately using the right leg for it and eliciting an offended yelp. He limped to his car without a word, got in, and drove to the hospital, aware of her car right behind his. Their parking places were fairly close to the door, although for different reasons - a sign of esteem and position for her, a sign of being handicapped for him. Normally they walked in together and then wished each other a good day as they separated in the lobby, but today, neither of them said a word to the other and she stayed a little bit behind him, watching him clear to the elevator.

House exited on the ICU floor, limping into Mark's room, painfully aware of his leg.

Jensen was there talking on his cell phone. Pam had left a little while ago for several hours of concerted sleep in the hotel room, and he would get his own turn this afternoon, which he was looking forward to. He felt exhausted, but he looked up quickly with a smile as House entered. "I've got to go, Cathy. One of the doctors just came in." He didn't identify which one, as Cathy would want to talk to him, and House already looked on his last nerve even at 8:30 a.m. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon when Mom brings you down, okay? Love you, too. Bye."

House crossed over to the bed and looked at Mark, who was back asleep. Jensen came to join him. "This treatment is working. He's been sleeping most of the time, didn't want much breakfast, but when he wakes up, he is himself."

"Good," House said. Beneath the annoyance and worry over Cuddy, he did feel a weight off here. At least he hadn't let Jensen down. "He'll probably sleep quite a bit at first. It's one of the body's ways of healing itself."

"I've put off the kids coming down to see him until tomorrow afternoon. I couldn't really hold them off any longer than that."

House nodded. "He should be much better by then."

"Thank you again." Jensen paused, and House tensed up. "Are you okay? You look . . ."

"Bad morning with the leg," House snapped, cutting off the statement of concern before it was fully voiced. "Must be the weather."

Jensen glanced at the window, which revealed a perfect early June morning, complete with sunshine and birds. Of course that was a lie, but the psychiatrist heard the thin edge beneath House's voice, too. House was at work here, still had one challenging and prestigious case unsolved, and he was already struggling. He couldn't get into a personal conversation. Not right now. He had to hold his defenses up to be able to work today. Jensen relented, but he made a point to follow up with House later. The man obviously needed help, no doubt with Cuddy, and with Mark on the mend, maybe Jensen could spare more time and energy to assist him. But not right now. He respected House's unspoken request and backed off. "Hopefully it will get better soon," he said, leaving the antecedent ambiguous.

House relaxed slightly, and there was a flash of gratitude in his eyes. He finished looking over Mark physically and then picked up his chart, flipping through the notes on the night.

Foreman entered the ICU room. "I didn't know you were here yet." He looked at House assessingly, making his own observations, but House was absolutely daring him by look to say anything. Foreman left it alone and dove into the case. "He's been sleeping fairly soundly most of the night, and his fever is starting to come down. He was awake the last time I was in here, didn't have much appetite for breakfast, but I ran a few neuro check questions. He seems oriented now."

House finished scanning the notes. Foreman had done an excellent job of documenting status throughout the night and had indeed been in here every hour to check. House looked up at the younger doctor, gauging tiredness. "You can go home for the day, Foreman. Get some sleep. Taub can come over to work the President with me and Kutner."

Foreman nodded. He was exhausted from that chopped-up night. "I can come back in tomorrow if you still need me."

"We'll see. Maybe the case for the Prez will break today." House didn't feel like he had energy for an epiphany if one came to him, though.

Foreman turned and left the room. House put the chart back, then looked at Mark again. His sleep wasn't as restless or uncomfortable looking as it had been yesterday. "He'll be all right," he said, reassuring himself as much as Jensen. This case, at least, was over.

Jensen smiled. "Yes. Thanks to you." He waited until House had turned and was almost out of the room before adding softly. "Good luck, Dr. House." House didn't have to waste energy deflecting the concern then; he was already leaving. Jensen saw one shoulder twitch, and then he was gone.

(H/C)

Upon arriving at her office, Cuddy spent a few minutes looking at the picture of her family, then went over to her desk and dove into the messages and emails since last night. She frowned at one email in the list from Kutner and clicked on that one.

_Dr. Cuddy, I would have helped House out for free, just took the money for his sake to keep him from owing me a favor. He wasn't pushing me into anything I didn't do willingly. Therapy really did help me. Please consider talking to somebody. Lawrence Kutner_.

Cuddy gritted her teeth and then stabbed at the delete button. A minute later, she emptied out her deleted items just for good measure. A flush of the electronic toilet, and down it went. She didn't believe that Kutner hadn't been under any coercion here, and she knew that sending him had been House's idea. That still annoyed her, House taking advantage of somebody else's past like that and for no valid reason. She stared at the blank deleted items folder for a minute, then shook herself back onto agenda and returned to prioritizing the administrative fires for the day.

She was going through a message related to last night's ER coverage fiasco when her secretary buzzed her. "Dr. Cuddy? Dr. Foreman would like to speak to you for a minute."

Concern hit immediately. Had something already happened to House today? He'd barely been in the hospital 20 minutes. "Send him in."

Foreman entered, looking worn out enough that she remembered he had been here watching Mark all night. Her initial worry was far closer than Mark, though. "Is House all right?"

"I don't think so," Foreman said. He shifted his weight, suddenly feeling that this was a bad idea. Damned therapy, teaching him to care about other people.

Cuddy surged to her feet. "What happened? Another gunman? Angry former patient?"

He was confused momentarily. "No, nothing like that. I just talked to him a few minutes ago. Nobody's attacked him." Cuddy sat back down and let out a deep breath, and her eyes shifted to the picture of her family on the wall. Foreman followed her glance.

"So why are you here if he isn't hurt? Was there something related to hospital business you wanted to talk about?"

Foreman sighed. "In a way." He wanted to change his mind and escape now, but it was too late to escape without an explanation.

Cuddy was getting impatient. "I have a very busy day ahead, Dr. Foreman. What did you want to talk to me about?"

Foreman took the plunge. "You're pushing House too hard this week. Always checking on him, hovering around every corner, and he looks stretched to the limit today."

Cuddy stiffened up in dignified denial. "He's been working three cases at once this week - which he insisted on himself. He has reason to be tired."

"Not like this. He looks a lot worse this morning than he did leaving last night, and the only thing in between was going home, not the patients. He _is_ solving the medical cases, one by one. But you're pushing him too much. I don't know if you're just scared about him or what, but you're going to wind up breaking him this way. He can't take much more of this."

Cuddy stood up again, her eyes blazing. "So let me guess, you came here to suggest that I get therapy."

"Well . . . you're the one who insisted on it for me, and you were right, even though I didn't want it. It's helped. I really think . . ."

"How much did he pay you?"

Foreman stared at her. "He isn't paying me for this. He doesn't even know I'm here."

"Nice try, Dr. Foreman. This conversation is over, and when you report to House, tell him if he'd focus on his cases, he might solve them faster. Then he wouldn't _be_ so worn out." She stalked to the door of the office. "Good bye, Dr. Foreman." She walked on out, slamming the door in his face, leaving him there alone.

Foreman let out his breath in a whoosh. So much for trying to show concern like he was working on. With that ended in disaster, he fell back on his default position most of his life, looking out for number one. With a quick wish for good luck tossed in House's direction, Foreman left the hospital and went home to sleep all day.

(H/C)

House stood at the whiteboard, facing Kutner and Taub. At least neither of them had asked if he was okay or commented on his worse-than-usual leg, although Kutner, ever eager to do something, had poured him some coffee. "Okay, Taub, maybe fresh eyes can help here. Here's the summary, although we have to drag it out of him. He's been having progressive GI distress and trouble eating for a few months. Didn't eat the morning of his speech here, got hypoglycemic, and collapsed. We diagnosed ulcers, put him on treatment. _But_ he also has had numbness and tingling in his feet recently, and his feet had decreased sensation and were somewhat cool when he came in. He wasn't walking right, as Kutner noticed. We ran Dopplers; no clots. Circulation to the feet has been progressively decreasing since, skin starting to peel, and the toes are badly discolored now. He does not have diabetes by history, and we ran glucose tolerance tests to check. No diabetes. Some family history of heart disease but none known personally. Does not smoke cigarettes. No history of Raynaud's disease. I have him on vasodilators and broad-spectrum antibiotics just in hopes of catching some sneaky infection with the right bullet, but the feet continue to worsen."

Taub studied the board. "History of cholesterol?"

"Normal. And just for the cherry on top of this case, we also have the extra special presidential rules. Those are that we have to run everything we're doing or testing for by their people and state why, and they have to approve it. As far as some exotic bacteria, which is the thread I'm chasing right now, he has traveled to everywhere, but while there, officially anyway, he has done nothing. All of his food is inspected and certified safe, lest anybody try to poison him. All locations visited thoroughly screened and approved as safe environments. All of his activities have the surgeon general's stamp of approval. He lives a perfectly guarded and guaranteed safe life, especially in foreign countries."

Taub rolled his eyes. "Where did he sneak out to?"

House smiled in approval. "Now _that_ is the million-dollar question. He's definitely done something that he thinks might influence voter opinion, whether he's actually ashamed of it himself or not. But he's not telling us. Also, his wife has been cheating, although that affair is over. I'd wondered about a revenge fling on his part - a nice local prostitute would be a great bet, could expose him to any bacteria or any environmental contamination, even just on clothes or skin, that any of her recent clients had. But he's not talking."

"So how do we make him talk?" Kutner asked.

"I've got another idea for that we'll try this morning. Taub can get the First Lady out of the room - you're good at charming women. Grill her a little bit more. Meanwhile, Kutner will . . ."

The conference room door slammed open, and Hurricane Cuddy, Category 5, blew in. Conversation ceased. "Your office," she snapped. "_Now_." She walked into the office and turned, pointedly waiting for him.

House sighed and limped over to her. "Keep working on this," he said to the other two, although he knew there wasn't a chance of it. They would be eavesdropping for all they were worth. House entered his office, and Cuddy pulled the blinds. She walked over into the open floor, a little away from the windows, and he followed.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

"A differential on the President?" House offered, knowing this was the wrong answer. He had no idea what the right answer was right now, though.

"I mean with Foreman. As if you didn't know. Don't play innocent with me, Greg." She was getting even more wound up.

"Foreman? I sent him home. He was up all night with Mark."

"And you gave him a little side errand along the way. How much did you pay _him_ to talk to me? I'm sure he held out for a lot more than Kutner. I can't believe he agreed at all."

_Foreman_ had talked to her? House felt a surge of reluctant admiration for the other doctor. "Lisa, if he talked to you, he did it on his own."

She shook her head vigorously. "No. You are the one with this crazy obsession about therapy. You sent him."

"I didn't," he insisted.

"And now you're adding lying to it." She came over until she was right in his face - or in his chest, actually, given the height difference. "Let's get something straight, once and for all. _I do not need therapy_. And _you_ are playing stupid games with the President's life, not to mention with your team's feelings. _Do your job, Greg_!" She emphasized each of the last four words with a pointed finger poking in his chest. Her cell phone rang right then, and she snatched it up. "What the hell do you want? Who? Oh yes, I remember the meeting now. Okay, I'll be down in a minute." She stabbed at off, glared at House, and then turned and exited the office, slamming the door and leaving the blinds rustling in protest.

House walked over to his desk and sat down, one hand rubbing his leg. He waited for the team to disturb him and ask for more details, following up on this juicy gossip bit, but the room next door was silent. For several minutes, he sat there, massaging his leg and thinking, but no answer appeared. Finally, he got tired of waiting for them and went back into the conference room. They were sitting at the table. Not discussing, not differentializing, just sitting there silently waiting. House stood in the doorway, challenging them by expression, waiting for their questions. Nobody said a word. Kutner stood up and topped off his coffee and brought it back over to him.

House took a few swigs, then limped back to the whiteboard. With a sigh, he turned to face the team. "Okay. As I was saying, we need to keep trying to get to his secrets. So Taub will take the First Lady out of the room, and Kutner -"


	40. Chapter 40

Kutner and Taub entered the President's room after getting Taub checked in through security. "This is Dr. Taub," Kutner introduced. "He's another member of Dr. House's team moving onto this case to help us."

The President looked generally uncomfortable today, whether purely physically caused or with emotional overlay. The First Lady looked annoyed, and the whole atmosphere in the room was heavier than yesterday. The guards were as stolid as ever, but the doctor was in the far corner fidgeting and not looking at the First Family, who were at least close together, though not meeting each other's eyes, either. Kutner imagined storm clouds hovering overhead just beneath the lights. "If he's on Dr. House's team, why hasn't he been here before?" the First Lady demanded.

"We had another case before your husband came to the hospital. Dr. House had to keep that one; he was already committed, and the patient was critical. House has been working both of them, but he split the fellows up." Kutner didn't bother mentioning the third case. He definitely didn't mention House's additional stress, far more distracting than any of the above.

"He ought to have focused on this one," the doctor insisted. "This case is important enough to demand full attention. We ought to transfer to DC where the doctors realize who they're dealing with."

The First Lady cut across his protest, those two automatically aligning on opposite sides of the argument. Taub tilted his head, following the negative electricity. He was very familiar with this type of circuitry. "Did he solve it?" she asked.

"The other case?"

"Yes. You said he was critical, that it had been going on all week. Did Dr. House solve it?"

"Yes, he did," Kutner stated. "That patient is doing much better today."

She nodded in satisfaction at this fresh evidence of House's genius. "He's a little . . . personality challenged, Steve, and he has an overactive imagination, but he is the best doctor around. We're staying."

The President sighed and shifted in bed, and Kutner stepped up, uncovering his feet. The deterioration was obvious to everybody. Kutner checked the pulses again. Diminishing pulses, but no stenosis, no clots, no peripheral vascular disease from diabetes. Oddly equal distribution, too. The progressive discoloration of the feet wasn't quite identical, but it was far more evenly distributed than he had ever seen in a case before. Of course, most people he'd seen with anything like this were diabetics, but usually one or two toes were much worse than others. Kutner tried to kick his own mind into overdrive as he'd watched his mentor doing so many times.

Taub moved into line on his assignment. "Mrs. Whittaker, could I speak to you for a few minutes?" She looked at her husband and hesitated. Taub gently moved behind her, subtly herding her toward the door. "It will only take a few minutes. Sometimes it helps us to talk to people separately when we have two people who are close. Things might occur to one that the other doesn't remember or doesn't think are important, and if we have you together, you feed off each other's reactions. So you might not mention something you were thinking of because the other person distracted you."

She considered, then nodded. They left the room, and the President jerked his head at one of the line of guards. "Go with her. Don't want another assassin around here waiting for an opportunity." He also didn't trust her as much today. Kutner analyzed this while sliding one hand subtly into the pocket of his lab coat and hitting a few buttons on his cell phone. The President had known in general that his wife hadn't always been faithful, might even have suspected something recently, but House's accusation with the doctor was a new one to him. He'd had a different partner picked out. Not that specific identity necessarily mattered to his motives of having a "revenge fling," as House termed it.

"Couldn't you do a small biopsy or something?" the President asked, looking at his feet. "Could you identify the bug that way?"

"We might, but at the moment, you still have no open wounds. If we cut into them even slightly with the circulation diminished, it would automatically kick the process into overdrive. You'd be worse before the results even got back from the lab. Making any kind of an incision with compromised circulation is a last resort." Kutner leaned back over the feet, taking out a probe. The President watched him and flinched. "Close your eyes, please," Kutner requested. The man was reacting to what he was seeing, not to the bite of the probe. He obeyed reluctantly, and Kutner continued the exam. The loss of sensation was progressing. Kutner had just finished on the second foot when his cell phone rang. He put down the probe, stripped off his examination gloves, and pulled it out of his pocket. "Hello? Yes, he is. Just a minute." He extended the phone to the President. "It's for you, sir."

The man looked dubious, his hand starting to reach out automatically and then pausing. "What the hell is going on?" the doctor demanded. "It's some trick. Don't take it."

That, of course, was all the impetus the President needed. His hand quickly resumed its arrested trip, seizing the phone. At the same time, he snapped to the doctor, "I'll take this call in private. Go get some coffee or something." The doctor shook his head at this mule-headedness and stalked out of the room. The Secret Service was still there, but as usual, they were expressionless.

The President put Kutner's cell phone to his ear. "Hello?"

House leaned back in his Eames chair in his office, his free hand massaging his leg. "Good morning, your presidentialness. It's high time we had a chat. Of course, I know you're going to bluff and bluster and stall and lie to me, so I'll just assume those responses on your part. That way we don't have to waste time. You just listen for a minute. Keep in mind, too, that your wife doesn't even know you're receiving this call, and the guards can only hear your side of the conversation. So this is about as private as I can get with you, since I'm not a prostitute. According to the night reports, which I already checked, you're still getting worse. Can you see your feet right now?"

There was a moment of reluctant respectful silence. The President was good enough at manipulation to recognize a master at work. "Yes," he said slowly.

"Good. Look at them while I tell you what's going on. They are _dying_. Get that? They are dying, and before long at this rate, you'll be in full-blown gangrene. And an interesting thing about being dead - it's permanent. I ought to know. A piece of my leg died; that's how I acquired the cool cane and the limp. Once tissue has died, we _cannot_ bring it back. We can only help the tissue that's compromised, or at least try to help it. Even that doesn't always work. But the part that totally dies, there is _nothing_ to do for dead tissue besides chop it off. You are heading straight for losing at least part of both feet if you don't help us out here. We'd start out as a transmetatarsal amputation, just take off the toes. Sometimes that isn't enough, and it still won't heal. So we'd go farther back, taking a little more each time. Eventually with some patients, we get clear to below-knee amputation, then above-knee. Once tissue is dead, we have to keep whacking until we get far enough past it. We can only help it while it's still alive, even if sick."

House was so focused right now, deliberately holding himself to task on the case to keep out distraction from Cuddy, that he didn't even have the usual pang when he thought of his leg of wondering how much more of the tissue that was compromised, not yet dead, might have recovered under his plan of medically induced coma during reperfusion. Probably not much more, and he knew that some debridement would have been needed anyway for the fully necrotic tissue, but it should have been his choice. Just now, though, there was no room for those familiar thoughts in his mind. "Are you listening?"

"Yes," came the reply after several seconds. It sounded a lot shakier. Good.

"I need to know what you did, where you went, and who you met there. I need to know the things not on the official reports. That is the only hope for saving your feet, and every hour, the odds are stacked more against you. _What did you do_?"

The pause was longer that time. House could almost imagine the President mentally counting votes. "I . . ."

"I'm not the media, damn it. I'm not 60 Minutes. I'm just trying to cure you."

"I need to think about it for a little while," the President finally said.

House slammed his hand down on the armrest in frustration. "Take all the time you want. Just remember that every minute, you get closer to the point of no return - or in your case, the point of no feet. Take it from me, there are hardly any benefits to being a cripple. Closer parking simply isn't worth it; you already get the close lots anyway. Ask them to page me when you decide to talk." He hit end.

That was as near to a private conversation as he was going to manage, given the circumstances, and he really thought his shots had gone home. The President had sounded much more frightened by the end. Hopefully the man wouldn't take long to debate with himself before confessing.

He ought to be frightened. Everything House had said was true. House leaned back, massaging his leg again, his eyes fixed on the white board in the other room. He couldn't read it at this angle, but he didn't need to. His mind provided the same text.

House had completely lost track of time, cycling between the President and Cuddy in parallel mental tracks, when Wilson entered the office. "House?" The oncologist turned toward him. "House, we . . ."

"What are the causes of gangrene?" House asked, his tone distant, totally focused.

The question caught Wilson off guard enough that it jolted him off his own mission briefly. His shoulders straightened. He was glad to be asked a medical question, something he had studied, something familiar, even if this wasn't his specialty. "Clots. PVD, usually from diabetes or smoking. Infections. Complications of frostbite. A couple of rare genetic disorders, I think; it rings a bell, anyway. Trauma with unhealing wound. Severe trauma with destroyed circulation."

House shook his head in frustration. That was the same list he'd been running circles around, and the outstanding entry on it still was infection, some stubborn bacteria setting up camp in the feet. Infection could be, unfortunately, a large field. If the President didn't cave soon and he did progress to full gangrene, they would have a toe to culture in a day or two. Until then, and without more information, they were left guessing the identity of the enemy. "Give me _another _answer, Wilson."

Wilson was willing, but his mind drew a blank. House sighed. "Did you want something?"

"Yes." He remembered his mission. "Sandra and I want to talk to you together. Right after lunch would be good if you can. Sandra's taking a nap until lunch; we just got back from going down to see Daniel."

"He doing okay?"

"Fine, although he looks like he's been split clear open. Poor kid." Wilson cringed in memory at that long surgical dressing. "He's stable, though. Had a little bit of a fever last night early, but it's already back to normal."

"Standard postop reaction, probably. I assume the neonatologist started antibiotics?"

"Of course. He was already on them immediately after surgery. It never went past low grade, probably just from stress to the system, like you said. He's pretty reactive, really. He was awake and moving this morning. They have him in splints now to hold his elbows straight, so he can't reach the tube or the dressing and grab them."

House grinned. "He'll do fine. What do you and Sandra want to talk to me about?"

"Cuddy."

House's grin shattered and fell away in pieces. "I already know that there's a major problem here, Wilson. _She's_ the one I need to convince."

Wilson shook his head. "Trust me, you don't know everything we're going to tell you. It might help. But Sandra wanted to do it together."

"Okay." House was willing to try anything, however long of a shot it sounded, that might help. "I'll come to her room after lunch. How are things?"

The oncologist started pacing. "We were talking about that some this morning, too. The trouble is, she won't _give_ me a final answer."

"That might be a good thing, Wilson. I doubt you want the final answer you'd get right now. Don't push her."

"I know. I'm trying. But this is so important, and I feel like I'm on eggshells. She says I'm going to have to prove to her I'm ready for this." Wilson stopped pacing at the far end of the office and spun to face his friend. "How do I do that? What proves it to her?"

"To me, that one sounds like four letters. Starts with T, ends with E."

"But how _long_?" Wilson demanded.

"Don't ask me. I'm not a woman. They're wired differently." House came to attention suddenly. "Quick, duck into . . ."

It was too late. He had recognized Cuddy's footsteps as she approached for another walk-by check that he was working. Unfortunately, she spotted Wilson through the open blinds. She entered the office, sparing her first look for a thorough assessment of her husband, who looked tired and hurting but reassuringly alive. Cuddy turned from him to Wilson. The oncologist backed up until his legs bumped against the bookcase behind House's desk. Cuddy advanced steadily, her prey cornered, and her words ramped up quickly, falling over each other as the volume rose. "Wilson. _So_ glad you decided to grace us all with your presence today. Tell me, when is the next vote due?" She stopped right in front of him. "You coward. You don't deserve them. This isn't a part-time commitment! Don't you realize what a family means? Don't you know that any moment -"

At that particular moment, Wilson's pager went off. He jumped, startled, and pulled it out without taking his eyes off Cuddy. Her eyes frightened him right now, oddly as much for her as for him. Slowly he raised the pager until he could glance at it while keeping her in sight. She was flushed, breathing rapidly, but seemed frozen momentarily by the page, automatically responding to the familiar hospital routines. Wilson looked at the page. _Big hospital. Surely there's an emergency somewhere. H_

He looked past Cuddy's shoulder to House, sitting behind her in the Eames chair. "I've got to go," he said, quickly ducking around her. "Emergency with a patient. Sorry." He was out the door as fast as he could, heading quickly for the stairs, not even waiting for the elevator.

Cuddy stood there looking out the window until her breathing settled back down. She turned around to face House. He expected accusations or even a substitute rant on him, since her primary target had escaped. Wait a minute. He _was_ her primary target, Wilson's sins notwithstanding. When she spoke, though, it was with another of those dizzying mood swings. Jekyll stepped back in front of Hyde. "You look tired, Greg. Why don't you take a nap for an hour or so?"

He stared at her. "What?"

"Why don't you take a nap for an hour or so? The team is with the President, right?"

"Yes. I was just talking to them a few minutes ago."

"Let them handle it for a little while. Take a break. I've got another meeting to get to; I'll see you later."

She left the office, and House sat in the chair looking at the closed office door. Finally he set the alarm on his cell phone for an hour. That would take him to lunchtime, anyway, and after that, he'd meet Sandra and Wilson and see what they had to contribute. He leaned back and closed his eyes, but the whiteboard of his mind immediately appeared as if graven on the inside of his eyelids, and the symptoms written there were not the President's. It took him half an hour, tired as he was, to fall asleep.


	41. Chapter 41

Shortly after lunchtime, House entered Sandra's room up on OB. The half an hour's nap when he finally got to sleep had only been an appetizer, and his body was demanding more. It could take a number. He walked in to find Sandra and Wilson finishing lunch, and they both looked at him as he walked across the room. "Thanks for saving me earlier," Wilson said. "She's really off the deep end."

"Believe me, I've noticed." House stood by the bed. "I just went by her office to report on the President, so hopefully she shouldn't try to track me down and make sure I'm working for at least 45 minutes now, maybe even an hour. The coast should be clear for this chat." He shifted his weight onto his cane, and Wilson abruptly remembered himself and stood up, offering the visitor's chair. The pain in House's leg battled briefly with annoyance at a cripple concession, even if a silent one, but the pain was strong enough at the moment to win, and House sat down.

Sandra was studying him. She'd thought House looked worn out Wednesday night - or rather Thursday morning - when he'd come to the room after she woke up from anesthesia, but he looked much worse now, and he hadn't even glanced at the remnants of Wilson's lunch still sitting on the nightstand next to him. Her nurse's instincts were waking up here, but she also knew that asking directly whether he had slept or eaten and when would only get his walls up. She didn't want to knock him into an independence fit before making her suggestion. She ignored the topic of him and launched into Cuddy, hoping that he would eventually notice the fries right next to him if nobody pushed him on it. Wilson was eying the fries forlornly himself, his appetite having recovered from post-hangover nothingness yesterday, but he then looked at Sandra and wisely made no effort to recapture them. "She's checking at least every hour to make sure you're working?" Sandra asked with just the right note of how unreasonable this was on Cuddy's part.

House nodded, one hand unconsciously rubbing his leg until he caught himself at it a minute later. "Yep. I can't even turn around this week without being supervised."

"She's rattled from Tuesday night and trying to over control everything," Wilson diagnosed. He was beginning to think he'd gotten off lightly himself a while ago. He couldn't imagine having her in his back pocket throughout the work day, not in her current mood.

"Sounds like she's scared," Sandra mused.

House nodded. "Exactly. She's scared. Not about to admit it, though." Part of Cuddy had always been scared of losing control of events. "The mood swings are all over the board. I've been trying to get her to agree to therapy, but nothing's working. Even bribing her with a full year of no-complaint clinic duty; she just laughed. The webcam idea backfired on me, too."

"Of course it never occurred to you to try to sit down and discuss it with her in a serious conversation instead of tricking her," Wilson commented dryly.

House felt the stab of misjudgment, but it was a trivial wound, just a paper cut, on top of all the others this week. "I tried that first," he stated.

Sandra, however, fired up immediately, and House looked up in surprise at the real anger in her tone. "James, apologize for that right now. You had no basis to jump to that conclusion."

Wilson had felt a little guilt at House's mild, flat-toned correction of his assumption, but looking at Sandra now, he felt a much stronger fear, different from the confrontation with Cuddy but even more chilling. He wasn't merely at physical risk here; he had to prove himself to her for his family. "I'm . . . I apologize, House." Sandra was clearly rating this and wasn't giving him a passing grade so far. "I shouldn't have said that. Obviously a lot more has happened this week than what you just said. I shouldn't have assumed that was all."

"He even phrased that as a last resort," Sandra said. "It was definitely implied that there were a lot of previous steps. One more judgmental remark, James, and you're kicked out of this conference. I apologize, House."

House shrugged. "It wasn't . . ." He stopped suddenly, realizing that saying Wilson was just being standard Wilson wasn't liable to help his friend out much here.

"It was," Sandra insisted. "He has no right to cut you down like that. I know it's near automatic for both of you at times, but just because something is a habit doesn't mean it's good. As partial restitution, he's forfeiting the rest of his fries; have at 'em."

House grinned at her tone and at Wilson's sheepish look. Sandra really was the best Wilson had ever met, strong willed but only digging in when she thought necessary, unlike Amber, who had been on a prove-it-to-the-world shtick in all her actions. He took a fry absentmindedly off Wilson's plate. "So what has Cuddy done to you guys? Wilson came up to suggest this little chat before she got him cornered a while ago, so you already had something."

"We haven't actually seen her, but she left James a message Wednesday night."

House flinched. "I can imagine." Part of him, though, was stuck on the fact that Cuddy hadn't been checking up on Wilson. With far more reason to question his professional diligence this week, she hadn't bothered actively to track the oncologist down until she ran into him. No, her professional mistrust was definitely focused on _him_.

"Even I thought it was over the top. But that gave me an idea if you needed one."

"I'll take any ideas," House replied. "Good, bad, doesn't matter. Hell, even _Foreman_ apparently went down this morning on his way out to tell her she was off her game."

Both of them were impressed. "She didn't listen to him, either?" Wilson asked.

"No, she thought I'd hired him and went off on me." House didn't bother mentioning that he actually _had_ hired Kutner, thus planting that seed in her mind.

"You need to listen to this message first." Sandra nodded at Wilson, and he pulled out his cell phone and cued it up after one quick glance to make sure the door to the room was shut. They sat listening in silence, Sandra subtly watching House. Several of his comments were bothering her more the more she talked to him, and she could tell he was less shocked at Cuddy's message than she and Wilson had been. He'd heard plenty of comments just as biting this week already. What on earth was she doing to him? He hadn't shown any interest in the fries beyond the first one, either. "Even I thought that was over the top," she repeated, "and I'm the primary offended party here. Well, me and Daniel both. We're the ones he abandoned."

Wilson cringed, looking down at his shoes. _Abandoned_. Such an awful-sounding word.

"So we'd like to help you," Sandra concluded. "To try, anyway."

House had been studying his cane while listening to Cuddy's tirade, but he looked up quickly then, and she saw the baffled look in his eyes. "What do you think you could do?" He didn't actually say _and why would you_, but he certainly thought it. The concept of people volunteering to be on his side, to help him in a large problem even to their own discomfort, was still an unexpected one after all the years of solitude. He'd seen it many times now from Cuddy in previous crises, but from someone else?

"I wondered if it might help if we had sort of an intervention," she offered. He looked thoughtful. "Maybe letting her hear that message and then me saying that was too much, when she knows what I've got at stake here myself, would make her stop and think about it."

House shrugged. He didn't think the idea would work, was starting to think nothing would work, but the offer touched him deeply. "Might be worth a try. I've tried crazier-sounding things than that." At that moment, a page sounded overhead, and he looked up. "I really don't think trying it in the hospital is a good idea, though. She's on professional turf here. Everything reminds her that she's in control. She'd be wondering about every page, and a nurse might walk in or something. If we're going to try that, we ought to get her on neutral ground."

"I'm being discharged in the morning," Sandra said. "Tomorrow's Saturday, too. You could come over to our place after lunch if you can find a sitter. You don't want the girls along for this."

"Absolutely not. Even _she's_ trying to act normal around them. I'm still working with the President, but I'll think up some excuse to get out." To get out. He realized with a pang that tonight, Friday, was their weekly date night. Only a week ago, he had come home from his appointment with Jensen, and they had had a wonderful evening together. Only five days ago, she had sat on the couch on Memorial Day morning, listening to him recount his graveyard tour, and she had said, "I'm proud of you."

_Only a week ago_. . .

"House?" He looked back up and focused. "After lunch tomorrow would work. I wish we could do it sooner, but I think you have a good point about not doing it in the hospital."

"I honestly don't think she'd listen to anything else today anyway, not until she simmers down."

Wilson nodded. "From seeing me, you mean?"

"No, actually I was thinking . . . never mind." He'd been thinking about her accusing him over Foreman. But he really did feel that today was a lost cause at this point for convincing her to see reason.

Sandra looked at him with concern. "You and she both might be better for a night's sleep first, anyway."

It might help her, at least. Truthfully, he knew he needed rest badly as well. Cuddy did seem to sleep soundly as long as he was there to be suffocated. Tomorrow she'd be in weekend mode, more in family mode, not in weekday administrator mode. No, tomorrow would be better for this in several ways. He still thought this was a long shot, but he'd take all suggestions. "Yeah, right." He looked at his watch. "I'd better get out of here before she comes hunting me. I'll call you some time tomorrow morning with a better estimate on time." He paused, awkwardly shifting his weight to his bad leg and then back. "Thanks," he said roughly and immediately walked out of the room.

Sandra and Wilson looked at each other, and he slowly sat back down. "He looks bad," he said.

"Yes. Wish we could do this sooner. He only took one fry, too."

"He never eats while talking about things that upset him. You have to talk about neutral subjects. I'm surprised he took one as much on edge as he was." Wilson absentmindedly had another handful himself. No point in letting them go to waste.

Sandra looked puzzled. "Why?" She could tell from Wilson's tone that there was a specific story there.

"His father apparently used food as punishment. Covered in pepper, things like that to deliberately ruin it. House mentioned a raw hamburger once. He'd watch him eat it and punish him more if he threw up."

Sandra shook her head. "It is amazing he made it through childhood. He's got a point about not trying this at the hospital, though. Our apartment would be better, where she's not in work mode. Speaking of work mode, you'd better get back to your own patients. I know you haven't done rounds yet today."

Wilson sighed and stood up. He wanted to stay with her, now and forever. But she had a point about other responsibilities; he had pushed off quite a bit on the other oncologists in his department this week. "I'll be back, Sandra," he promised. He headed for the door to the room, carefully looked both ways for Cuddy, then left.

(H/C)

About mid afternoon, Cuddy was going through budget reports when her secretary buzzed her. "Dr. Cuddy, a Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson are here and would like to see you."

Cuddy tapped her pen on the desk, thinking. Stevenson. Where else had she heard that lately? They didn't have an appointment, but her secretary's tone had a subtle note of approval beneath it. They passed the sniff test at the outer office anyway. She was just doing paperwork at the moment, which needed doing but wasn't uninterruptable. "I can give them 15 minutes. If they need longer, they'll have to make an appointment."

"I'll send them in."

Cuddy came to her feet, looking at the picture of her family as she crossed the office toward the door. It opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson entered. Cuddy immediately recognized what had impressed her secretary: Money with a capital M. From the perfectly and expensively designed clothes to the set of the shoulders, these people had _status_. She was aware as she extended her hand that she herself was undergoing a similar evaluation. Lots of people she encountered ran the mental price tag, and that set the whole tone for a conversation or a donation. These people didn't have the air of complaining former patients. Probably new donors, here to scout out PPTH and hopefully leave a check from their obviously ample checkbook. "Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson, I'm Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House, Dean of Medicine. Please, sit down." She steered them into the chairs in front of her desk, then moved around it to sit down facing them. "What can I do for you today?"

It was the wife, she noted, who took charge of the conversation. "We'd like to make a donation to your hospital, Dr. Cuddy-House."

She smiled. "That would be very much appreciated. As a teaching hospital, a lot of our funding comes through our valued patrons. Did you have any particular department or area you wanted to designate?"

"No particular department, just an acknowledgment. A receipt of sorts. I'm sure you know how important it is to keep a record of these things."

"Yes, of course." Cuddy reached into her top desk drawer for her receipt book and pulled it out, and Mrs. Stevenson took a piece of paper out of her purse, along with her checkbook.

"We brought our own, if you don't mind." She pushed the paper across to Cuddy and began writing the check.

Cuddy read the paper, then read it again. In crisp, legal language, obviously written by a lawyer, it stated that in recognition of a $20,000 donation, PPTH and she herself were acknowledging that Sam Higgins had been acting entirely alone and that his relatives bore no responsibility or liability for his actions of Tuesday night.

Cuddy read it a third time, then looked up, her eyes going to the picture of her family on the wall, then back to the cold, businesslike eyes of the couple before her. Mrs. Stevenson finished writing the check, ripped it off the pad, and pushed it across. "You're Sam Higgins' family?" she asked, just getting this clear. Stevenson. Paul Stevenson yesterday afternoon, asking after the uncle that his family shunned.

Mrs. Stevenson's nose flared slightly as if at an unpleasant smell. "Unfortunately, yes. He was my brother. Of course, I hadn't seen him or talked to him in years, and I had no idea what he was up to. I assure you, I _never_ would have condoned that. It reflects badly on the whole family, and the only thing I can say is that thank God he wasn't close to us. Of course, we are not legally at fault anyway, but our lawyer thought it might just help to give a small contribution to your hospital in exchange for a signed statement to that effect to avoid having to go to the expense and trouble of disproving any potential charges. And I'm _sure_ it is a very nice little hospital you have here."

Cuddy stared at the check, which she still hadn't touched. "You seriously think you can buy your way out of association with him for $20,000?"

Mrs. Stevenson reopened her purse and removed another folded piece of paper, same receipt as before only with $40,000. She began writing another check. "We're prepared to offer $40,000, Dr. Cuddy-House, but that is our final offer. No further."

Cuddy looked at the picture, then back at them. Slowly she reached out to take the checks and the receipts, and she tore all of them up, leaving only a pile of confetti on her desk. "How _dare_ you try to buy out of this. It _is _partly your fault, because he was your _family_."

Mr. Stevenson entered the fray. "We are quite ready to meet you in court if needed, Dr. Cuddy-House, but we will not go over $40,000, and you won't win anything there. You'd be wise to accept our offer. You're never going to get more money out of this."

Cuddy's tone blasted off. She stood up. "This isn't a _question_ of court or money, it's a question of _family_. He was your RELATIVE. And you turned your back on him, turned your noses up at him, didn't even bother checking up after he had a brain injury. Don't you realize what a family is? How _dare _you try to cheapen that bond by putting monetary terms on it." She stalked to the office door and snatched it open. "Get out of this office, and get out of my hospital, and take your checkbook and your warped values with you." Her secretary looked up from her desk in surprise, never having heard Cuddy throw a checkbook out of the hospital since the Vogler episode, and that had taken weeks, not five minutes. Cuddy was wound fully up now, not caring who heard her, which several people did. "You disgust me. He was your _family_, but he deserved far better than the likes of you. _You_ are a perfect illustration of the fact that mere money does not equal class. Spend as much as you want, and you'll never buy class. You either have that or you don't, and there's no question with you."

The Stevensons stalked past her, dignity intact. "We regret having disturbed you with a reasonable offer, Dr. Cuddy."

"I regret giving you five minutes of my day. But that's more than you gave to your brother. We're not planning to sue you, but I'm sure you'll be talking to the federal investigators, probably already have, and I have a suggestion. Don't try to buy them off with some cheap check. You absolutely share some responsibility, and all the money in the world won't change that."

They walked away. Cuddy stood there breathing a little heavily, looking after them, not even noticing the staff and patients and family within earshot. Finally, she turned around to her secretary. "I do not _ever_ want to see those people again. No matter what they want to contribute; we're not taking it." She walked back into the office and slammed the door. The secretary sat there stunned, looking after her.

(H/C)

The grapevine entwined its way up to the fourth floor by late afternoon. House had been grilling Taub on the results of his chat with the First Lady - lots of suggestions but no real progress; she obviously didn't know what her husband had done in detail, either - when Kutner came in saying he'd heard from a lab nurse in the elevator, who had heard from the front reception desk, that Cuddy had thrown a pair of rich donors and their checkbook out of the hospital and had refused to take their money. House sighed but dutifully stood up to head down to check on her. From turning against him to turning against Wilson to turning against fat checkbooks - she was really falling apart this week.

She was sitting at her desk with paperwork in front of her, but she looked lost in thought, and she jumped as he opened the office door. "Did you need something, Greg?" She looked him up and down with that odd intensity she had lately, as if she didn't quite remember what he looked like and wanted to memorize him for future reference.

He limped over and sank into a chair, hating the feeling of the pit in his stomach, of walking on eggshells around her. All he wanted was for things to go back to normal. "I, um, heard there was some excitement earlier."

She immediately took that baton and ran with it. "Would you _believe _that the family of Sam Higgins came here trying to buy me off with $20,000? They hadn't even _seen_ him in years, never kept contact."

"Not like the nephew?" She had mentioned the nephew's brief visit to him last night.

"I don't know how those idiots ever had a son with any common sense." She stood up, getting agitated again. "The only thing they were worried about was legal liability. Don't they _know_ what family means? You can't just turn your back or walk out on that! Not like them, not like Wilson. You need to hang onto it." She had stopped in front of him after pacing a quick circle, and by the end of her statement, she was actually leaning into him, by presence if not literally pinning him down.

He was totally bewildered now. She thought _he_ was going to run away? Like they did? He was now not only professionally but personally unreliable? "Lisa," he started, and the damned cell phone, of course, rang.

House sighed, then pulled it out. "I'm about ready to throw this thing through that door," he snapped, and she abruptly flipped back from physically imposing to amused, giving a genuine grin. House hit the button. "Hello. He what?" His head came up, the eyes igniting. "Okay, then. I'll be right there." Cuddy had backed off enough that he could stand up now, and he came to his feet. "That was the nurse on 3 West. The President would like to speak to me in person." He smiled. "_Finally_ I'm about to get a break in this case. I hope. I was trying to scare him into telling me the truth earlier, but he said he had to think about it first. He still thinks I'm the National Inquirer or something."

Cuddy trailed him to the door. "So you probably won't be home for dinner?" She looked at her watch.

"I doubt it. Depends on if he has anything useful to say. I'll try to be home later, though, hopefully with a nice presidential solution."

"I'm heading home soon, can't be late with Marina, but keep in touch, Greg. Let me know when you leave the hospital."

"I will." He left the office, half of his mind up on 3 West, half still back with her. One case breaking right now, one case with another diagnostic exercise, even if a long shot, tomorrow. Maybe they'd both be solved soon. Truthfully, he would have settled on solving just one of them, though, and given his choice on that if he'd had one, the President would have been out of luck.


	42. Chapter 42

A/N: I just had to give a nod in this chapter to Humpty Dumpty, a neat old style House episode full of Huddy interactions with all their old spark.

I'm not a Secret Service person anymore than I am a doctor, but there are a few good Secret Service memoirs out there, and they are eye openers. Lots of behind the scenes things, and yes, some Presidents have even had code language and standard procedures for prostitutes set up. I realize my particular scenario is pushing it, but Presidents have taken less guarded unadvertised jaunts for less than political purposes. I also realize that there have been faithful Presidents through history, but there have also been several who would make Wilson's track record look boring. Those types played better into this story.

Off history, a subject I love, and back to my own little universe. There isn't a chance that I'll finish this story before December, but I should get you past the big House-Cuddy confrontation Saturday morning, so you won't be so much hanging off a cliff waiting for me.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.

(H/C)

House quickly limped his way onto 3 West. After a quick debate with himself in the elevator, he hadn't requested Kutner and Taub to join him. The President would probably confess more to just one person; House could tell them everything once he left. Purely for medical reasons, of course. He really didn't care what the executive had been up to personally.

The President was looking more flushed and more uncomfortable, and House couldn't help doing a quick medical inspection after entering the room. The toes looked bad, definitely heading from impaired circulation toward gangrene. House checked the pulses and frowned. All the measures he'd tried to increase circulation, including vasodilators and compression devices on the legs, were not having any apparent effect, nor were the antibiotics. Fever was present, though not too high yet. This really was not looking promising. Probably tomorrow, without a solution, they would have to make the point of no return call. The worse the toes got, the more they would dump poison into the general system.

The President sighed. "I'd like to talk to Dr. House alone," he said. The doctor spouted up an objection, and the guards looked uncertain about this.

"Aside from being a brilliant doctor, I'm just a beat-up cripple," House pointed out. "I'm not a threat to him. Keep one or two in the door and watch if you want, but would you like to have conversations with your doctor in front of a dozen witnesses?"

"Please," the President said. "It's all right, gentlemen. We're just going to talk." Even sick, he still had his appealing-to-the-public voice. Slowly the entourage filed out, although House was aware of a couple of them hovering just outside the door.

House stepped up to the bed, his voice low. "Where is your wife?"

"I told her I needed to talk to you. She's expecting the full story later from me." The President sighed again, looking at his feet. "Maddie and I understand each other. I've forgiven her, and she'll forgive me."

House understood them better than he wanted. A marriage of convenience, keeping up a public front, with some affection but without true commitment on both sides. The picture of life together without the passion or spark that he had with Cuddy sounded more like a jail sentence than a partnership.

_Cuddy_. . .

"Dr. House?" House blinked and focused. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," House lied.

The President quickly, nervously, flipped back to his own situation. "This is all confidential, isn't it?"

"Yes. I promise not to tell your secrets to America. Now would you _please _get on with confessing whatever you're going to confess?"

The President launched into his tale. "Recently, I knew Maddie was seeing somebody else. Of course, I haven't been a saint myself, and she's had some slips, too; everybody does." House forced himself not to react to that and get the man off track, but again, the comparison to his relationship with Cuddy couldn't help presenting itself. He wouldn't even find anybody else tempting now, and he knew, even if he was somewhat confused by it, that she had never strayed to another else. Even with their current problems, he had no doubt by now on that point. Faithful, committed marriage was not just a myth from fairy tales.

The President was continuing, building up momentum after having finally started on his road of confession. "But she almost seemed _happy_ a few times. That bothered me." House nodded. It was the implied insult to his own manhood that had rankled, that she had found someone else who pleased her more, not just that his wife was having an affair. "I never guessed the doctor. I thought it was one of the staff secretaries. But that chewed away at me, and one night a few weeks ago when we were in Brazil for a conference, she had been late back to the room the previous night, and I got mad thinking about it. I wanted to prove that I still had it. So that night, I said I was going to bed early, to rest up for the next round of meetings the next day. I've had my people arrange me a prostitute a few times in the past, but the trouble with that is that the girls always know who they're with. You have to wonder sometimes just how real it is, if they're putting on an act just because I'm the President. That night, I wanted to know what a woman thought of me, not as the President but as a man." He had obviously mentally rehearsed this little speech this afternoon, sorting out which words were most likely to reach a sympathetic audience in the other man.

"Right, right, I get it. Invite yourself to Dr. Phil to talk about feelings; I'm more interested in microbes. Where did you go?"

"I have two guards who have helped me out once in the past to get a woman anonymously. Added glasses and a false beard, and nobody realized I was the President. I called them again that night, and we went out to find some prostitutes in a busy area where I'd just be another one in the crowd." House cringed, imagining the potential germ transfer, even just from hands and clothes, in an assembly-line prostitution red light district in Brazil. "We found some women and went down an alley just for sex against a wall. That way, the guards never lost sight of me. In fact, they pretended to, well, you know, not be able to. So they wouldn't get distracted from me. We were trying to be safe. When we were finished, we got back into the hotel through the back way. Bribe a few workers, and back in. I still got back before Maddie that night. Only she came in mad - maybe that was the night she broke it off with . . ."

House cut him off. "Like I said, tell Dr. Phil. Now, back to this alley. What kind of buildings were around it? Do you have any idea what environmental factors were close to there?" Of course, given the possible transfer from previous clients, something could have been imported on another man, but House had to start somewhere. Brazil was a big country. His mind was already sorting through possibilities.

"I know they were having cock fights in one of them. That's why the crowd was around there that night. One of the guards asked a hotel worker where people went to have a good time and find women without having to look that hard; of course, he acted like he wanted it for himself."

House straightened up. "Cock fights?" His mind jumped back to the case of Cuddy's handyman, who had also had gangrene. But no pneumonia here, whether typical or atypical. Psittacosis didn't match the rest of this presentation. No splenomegaly, either. Not likely endocarditis here; the President would have been sicker before this. Cuddy's handyman had had culture-negative endocarditis throw off a plaque that hit the hand. Still, it was a possible tie to gangrene. He'd check it out.

"That means something to you, doesn't it?" the President asked hopefully.

"Maybe. Another lead to rule out anyway. Now back to that alley and the area around it." House grilled the President for another five minutes, getting nothing more specific. "Did you wear a condom?"

"Of course," the other man stated. "I'm not stupid, you know. _Everybody _knows to do that. I wore a condom, and it didn't break."

House sighed. Okay, not STD, had to be passive transfer from clothes from someone else in that crowd who had been in line at the prostitutes. Unless . . . "You didn't happen to eat any local food while you were out, did you?" Everything he consumed at foreign hotels was screened as to source and safety.

"No. Nor drink any water. I really haven't been eating that much lately; my stomach, you know."

"Right. By the way, is that feeling better?" The President nodded silently. House pushed back from the bed. "I'll go run some more tests."

"Do you think you can save my feet?" the President asked, suddenly losing his rehearsed story. He looked like any frightened patient right now.

"I don't know," House said honestly. "Even without knowing why the circulation is going, we've been doing everything we can to help it already. But knowing a specific bug would definitely help with selecting antibiotic. How are the shooting pains in the legs?"

"Getting worse." The President looked at his feet. "I _can't _be crippled." House tensed up. "I mean, I know you have been an inspiration yourself. I didn't mean anything personally, Dr. House, but . . . I play golf. I run."

"If we have to work on them, we'll start with as little as possible," House said, retreating into medical detail. The disregard for what he himself had formerly done when he had been whole rankled, but he had no energy or time to waste coming up with a sarcastic cutdown. House, too, had played golf, had run, had loved lacrosse. He hadn't been born a cripple. He shook himself out of memories onto his job. "I'll do the best I can. Got to get to the lab."

As he walked down the hall through the security staff, he wondered which two of them had been the designated ones and what their tip had been for that night.

(H/C)

"Negative," said Kutner apologetically, finishing their latest of several tests. The three of them were down in the lab.

House was silent for a moment, and then he slammed his hand down on the table in frustration. He used his right hand, hanging the cane on the edge of the table first, and his leg protested sharply at the blow and tried to buckle. A second later, he was grasping at the table in earnest. Kutner and Taub looked at each other, mentally drawing straws, but Taub clearly chose to abstain. Kutner gave a silent sigh. House got himself squarely balanced again, although his leg was still complaining. He had put on a heat patch this morning while getting dressed, but it had died by this point. "Okay, so what else is there? _Think_, people. Bacteria in Brazil that could have been transferred passively by skin or clothes through a third party. Surely we haven't tested all of them." Psitticosis was definitely out, although he hadn't thought it fit anyway. He tried to make himself stop and think, to listen to his instincts here as he had done with Mark, but his instincts were telling him nothing, his mind's only message that it was tired. They'd been testing for a few hours now, broken only by Kutner going to get everybody sandwiches.

Taub retreated a token step, firmly leaving Kutner in possession of the floor. "House," Kutner started tentatively. "Taub and I will stay here and run tests tonight. Why don't you go home and get some rest?"

House was grumbling at the latest printouts and didn't react. "House!"

He looked up eagerly. "Got an idea?"

"Yes. Why don't Taub and I stay here testing everything we can think of tonight while you go on home?"

House at least heard the suggestion that time. He looked back at the offending lab printout, then added it to the stack of the unhelpful previous ones. "Okay," he finally said softly. He turned away from the table, got his balance set carefully, and slowly limped out of the lab.

Kutner and Taub stared at each other. "Okay?" Taub repeated. "You just told him to go home, and all he said was okay?"

"That's what I heard," Kutner confirmed. Both of them looked at the closed door House had vanished through, their concern even greater now. Finally, they turned back to the lab instruments.

(H/C)

House limped wearily into Mark's room. He knew Kutner was right; he was hitting the limit of usefulness. They would be much more effective in the lab right now without him. Still, he wanted one more check on Mark before he left.

Jensen and Pam were there, talking softly, both of them looking much better now after several hours of sleep each in an actual bed. Mark was asleep. House limped over to him.

"Hi," Jensen greeted him warmly. Pam stood up and came over to put a hand on his arm.

"Thank you so much, Dr. House. We'll never forget this."

House automatically dodged away from gratitude. "How's he doing?" he asked, flipping through the chart at the same time for the medical version.

"Better all the time," Jensen filled in. "Sit down, Pam. Give him some room to work." House realized that Jensen's true motive was to get her grateful hands off his left arm, not just to help his balance but to pull back the response of gratitude he never quite knew how to deal with. Jensen was so perceptive. Part of him wondered what Jensen would make of the President, but he knew he couldn't introduce them. Pam released House's arm and returned to her chair, and Jensen continued the report. "He's been asleep most of the day, wakes up now and then, a little longer each time."

House nodded in satisfaction, putting down the chart. "It's the body's way of healing. I think he's going to be fine. I do want to keep him in the ICU for a few more days, though. The monitoring equipment is a lot better here, and we need to watch his heart very carefully. We know the infection had a good grip there."

"Do you think he's going to need a permanent pacemaker?" Pam asked.

"I doubt it. We've already turned the settings on the temporary down a little today. His heart should keep getting better; I just want to monitor it while it does."

"When do you think he might be discharged?" Jensen asked.

House considered, looking at Mark. Fever still there but decreasing. He was improving rapidly today, but he had been very sick, and they had to be absolutely sure his heart was stable in rhythm. He could easily have died on Tuesday if his cardiac episode had been timed a little differently. "Middle of next week," he suggested. "That's an educated guess, so don't sue me if it's a little longer."

Pam smiled. "Believe me, we aren't going to sue you. I'll stay here, of course. Michael? I know your work was knocked crazy this last week."

"That doesn't matter. I mean, it does, but this matters more. I'll stay for the moment. The better he feels, the more he's going to be tempted to do too much."

House grinned in turn. "He won't be 100% even when he gets home. I don't envy you making him take it easy. And remember what I said about the antibiotics. You absolutely have to knock this out. You can't stop treatment partway; it's a stubborn little bacteria."

"He's not stupid, just stubborn," Jensen said. "We'll make sure he takes them." He studied House. "Were you leaving for the night?" Jensen certainly hoped he was.

House nodded. "Heading home right now. I need to get some sleep. I'll be back in the morning, though. See you then."

He turned to leave, and he heard the soft chorus in stereo behind him as he exited. "Good night, Dr. House." He headed up to his office to get his backpack, feeling some satisfaction along with the exhaustion. Even if the President was still stuck, House had at least helped Mark. There was also little Daniel. Daniel Gregory. He smiled to himself as he exited the elevator on four.

In the office, he picked up the backpack, then put it back down. Cuddy had called twice since she'd left, checking in on the case. He'd better tell her he was leaving. He just hoped she didn't fight him on it; he really wasn't contributing much by staying here at this point until he'd had a little sleep. On second thought, he'd simply send a text, not call. Less opportunity for her to object to his stopping work that way, not like a conversation he didn't have the energy for. He typed up a quick text message. _No answer with Pres but about to head home. Back tomorrow morning._ He sat down on the Eames chair, backpack propped against it, and waited to see if he would get a quick reply. He didn't want to be distracted by the cell phone's beep in a minute while driving; he was tired enough that he needed to focus everything on the road. His leg was still protesting, and he lifted it up onto the ottoman, stretched out, and massaged it. The heat patch was cold and stiff along the side of his thigh below the scar, uncomfortable both to the leg and his hand. He unzipped his pants, having a brief fight with the zipper. He reached in and carefully removed the dead patch. The phone, naturally, chirped as he was still fumbling with the button on his jeans trying to redo it, and he quickly finished and picked it up. _Okay. Drive safely._

House sighed as he put it away. Surprisingly no reprimand for quitting the case for the evening, but she was questioning his driving again. Did she have any faith in his ability to do _anything_ anymore? Why had Sam made her stop believing in him? He still couldn't see the connection there. He pushed the thought away, too tired to analyze more about Cuddy tonight. As he started to reach for the backpack, his eye caught the whiteboard in the conference room, and his thoughts irresistibly ran back over a summary of the President's symptoms. He was having trouble remembering what tests were left on the list for the team. Had he remembered to tell them...

House's eyelids closed, his head turning slightly, his left hand still touching his backpack beside the chair, his right hand still resting gently on his leg. Stretched past the limit, he fell into the bottomless pit of sleep.


	43. Chapter 43

A/N: Bonus chapter for the day. This little scene with Jensen is one of my three favorite moments in this fic. The other two are the very next chapter and the final scene of the story. I promise, the next chapter IS the showdown. We now reach the end of Friday night, and Saturday morning is right around the corner.

(H/C)

Only a few seconds later, it seemed, there was an annoying motion. Somebody had him by the right shoulder and was giving him a firm shake. A voice drifted in, as if at a distance. ". . . UP! Come on, wake up!" House grunted and tried to move away, but the relentless hands followed. "If you're going to spend the night here, have you told Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy. Slowly he managed to drag his weighted eyes open to meet Jensen's brown ones. The psychiatrist was bending over him. "Come on, Dr. House. You said you were going home for tonight, but if so, you didn't make it."

House moved his left hand around and blinked at the fuzzy figures on his watch. "It's 9:00," Jensen said. "About 20 minutes since you left Mark's room. Did you change your mind about going home?"

"No," House said. "I was just taking one last look at the President's symptoms. Didn't mean to fall asleep here."

"Come on," Jensen urged him. "I'll give you a ride."

House shook his head. "You're supposed to be with your brother. I'm okay."

"And where else have we heard that line recently?" Jensen pointed out. House looked away. "You definitely don't need to be driving. It took me a minute to get any response at all from you. As for Mark, I was heading out anyway. He woke up and decided he was in the mood for a chocolate milkshake. I take it that's a good sign?"

House grinned. "Can't be a bad one. But you're out of luck; I don't sell milkshakes in my office."

"I was just taking a walk for a few minutes first through the hospital. I haven't had much breathing time this week, and it's quiet on most of the floors this late. I walked by your office and saw the lights, so I came in to check on you." That was all perfectly true, but Jensen didn't add that it was definitely intentional that his stroll around PPTH had started on the fourth floor. He'd intended to offer House a ride home anyway if the diagnostician hadn't left yet. "Come on, let's go. You need to get home."

House slowly moved his leg off the ottoman and massaged it for a minute. "Okay," he conceded. "As long as you were trying to escape for a while anyway, we might as well lengthen your route."

Jensen hid a smile at the way House flipped it to look like he would be the one providing a favor. "I really wouldn't mind a little drive around Princeton. I've seen way too much of your ICU this week."

House released his leg and dragged himself to his feet, then wobbled as the floor seemed to tilt under him. Jensen gripped his elbow, steadying him.

"How much sleep _have_ you had this week?" the psychiatrist asked.

"Dunno," House replied. "I've had my mind on other things besides counting it."

"Try," Jensen persisted. "Have you had a solid night's worth any time since Tuesday morning? What happened last night? I thought you were going home to rest after you got the diagnosis on Mark."

"I did. Went to bed early and everything."

Jensen looked dubious. "Did you sleep there or just run mental circles? What about the sleeping pill?"

"I've already got one mother, and sometimes, you're almost as annoying as she is," House snapped. "Definitely don't need two of you." He pulled away stubbornly, and Jensen let him go but kept a close eye on him as they left the office and headed for the elevator. "I'm back down to just one case, though. Gaining on things." He sighed, his shoulders drooping. "And Lisa."

Jensen accepted the implicit offer to open that subject. He didn't think House really had the energy to talk about her now, and he wouldn't push him, but House couldn't leave the topic alone, even worn out. She was too much on his mind to ignore, and talking to Jensen was a habit by now. Cuddy was no doubt the bone he'd gnawed instead of sleeping last night. "No progress with her?"

"No. She's as locked down as your brother was on Tuesday. Ain't nothing wrong here, nope. She's hiding from herself, not just me." He entered the elevator and leaned against the wall, fighting the waves of weariness. They washed over him like a tide, trying to pull him back with them. "I have no idea what to do here. Sandra thought of something we'll try tomorrow afternoon, but I really don't think that will work either. Everything I've tried so far blew up on me." He looked over at Jensen hopefully, just in case the psychiatrist had a handy rabbit in his hat. They had had no real time for therapeutic contact this week, but Jensen's personal crisis was settling now. Maybe the other man could help him out with a few ideas.

Jensen considered. "Have you tried bribing her? She bribed you."

"Tried that this morning; I offered her a full year of clinic duty without a single complaint. She laughed at me. Nothing's wrong; therefore a bribe is just a waste of her time. I also don't need to resume clinic anyway, being as decrepit and crippled as I am." House closed his eyes in thought. A mistake, as his body was quite ready to drop back to sleep even standing up. Jensen grabbed his elbow again as his balance shifted. The elevator came to a stop.

House snapped back to quasi alertness, brushed off his supplemental human cane, and hobbled out across the lobby. Jensen studied him, arriving quickly at a triple diagnosis of short on sleep, short on calories, and under far too much stress. He briefly considered offering to get House a milkshake, too; House had visibly lost weight this week. Still, Jensen thought the need for some sleep outweighed everything else, even the stress, for the moment. He'd make sure tomorrow morning that House had a good meal in him. Wilson understandably had had his own fish to fry this week and hadn't been making sure his friend ate. With Jensen himself tied up with Mark and Cuddy busy in denial, nobody House would accept had been available to follow up adequately and make sure he took care of himself. House was making progress, but under the four-sided stress assault of this week, there was no way he would have kept up with things on his own. He looked about ready to fall over right now, obviously feeling it all at once. "Why don't you just sleep on it tonight?" Jensen suggested. "Sometimes answers come while we're asleep."

"Sleep on what?" House asked.

Yes, he _definitely_ needed at least several hours of sleep first and foremost. "Dr. Cuddy," Jensen said patiently. House really needed more sleep than that to catch up, but Jensen knew he wouldn't get it. House couldn't go down for the count quite yet, not with the President and his wife still as unresolved issues. His mind wouldn't stay offline any more than the bare minimum, but it wasn't going to continue being functional without that minimum, either. He'd completely hit his limit for tonight. His body had outvoted his formidable brain.

"Good idea. I don't think she's been sleeping well this week either, at least not alone. She seems to sleep better with me there." Even if she did turn into an octopus fastened onto him.

"I think that will help her a lot." Jensen paused just outside the main doors. His car was in a distant lot, and House didn't need the walk. The psychiatrist subtly steered House toward a bench. "Wait here, and I'll get my car."

House, of course, got annoyed at the production of the cripple card, as he read it. "I could use a walk myself, same as you."

Jensen carefully went for pure practicality, keeping his tone neutral. "But we'd get to your house faster this way. You're already later leaving than you planned; you don't want Dr. Cuddy to start getting worried."

House considered and then conceded that point grudgingly. He really would slow Jensen down on a multi-lot walk across the hospital grounds. "Okay. I had sent her a message I was leaving soon." He sat down on the bench. Jensen hesitated to make sure he was firmly propped against the back so that when he fell asleep waiting he wouldn't be as likely to fall off, and House glared at him. "Speaking of wasting time."

Jensen turned and walked off, and about 50 feet away, he smoothly picked up a run. He had always loved to run, something else he shared with Mark, and even though he wasn't in sneakers and sweats at the moment, and the hospital parking lot was hardly a track, it felt wonderful. It had indeed been a hard week, but it was almost over. At least for his family it was almost over. Thanks to House. With more time and mental energy now to spare, he would have to see if he could come up with any good suggestions on Cuddy. Later on, he knew he would have to work through the scars from this whole episode with House; Cuddy obviously hadn't been gentle with him this week, even just from the little Jensen knew. But first, they had to get her eyes opened and get her into therapy somehow. Legs working smoothly like pistons, Jensen jogged across the darkened lots to his car.

House watched with a stab of pure envy. He remembered that. _How_ he remembered that. The body right there to answer the summons, all muscles and tendons working together, the endorphins sweeping through him and washing away at least temporarily everything that was wrong in his life, the way the ground disappeared behind his willing feet.

Running. A part of his past that he could never regain, but he could not resist watching Jensen's retreat and listening to the rhythmic footfalls. It was like looking at old pictures of himself. He hadn't looked at those pictures in a long time. That reminded him of the President's unspoken assumption that for House, things had always been this way.

_Things had always been this way_. His weary mind tried to latch onto a thought there, some new perspective his instinct was trying to point out to him, but before he could complete it, he fell asleep again.

Jensen pulled the car up to the circle drive and smiled at House's slumped posture. The psychiatrist put the car in park, getting out to go wake him up. Again, it took him some effort to get a response, though not quite as much as earlier up in the office. "Come on, Dr. House. The car is here; you need to get home."

House revived long enough to swat Jensen's hands away, grumble impatiently that he hadn't been asleep but merely resting, and then limp from the bench to the passenger's seat, but he was asleep again before the car pulled out onto the main road. Glad that he knew the way, Jensen simply left him alone, although at the first stoplight, he reached over to check his pulse and just make sure, suddenly remembering the past, that House didn't have a fever. No, the other man didn't seem sick, but he was definitely stretched to the limit, and he never moved at Jensen's touch. Jensen hoped that the President's case - and even more, Cuddy's issues - would make progress soon. House was going to run himself into total collapse if he kept up this week's pace much longer.

Jensen pulled into House's street and frowned, his hands tightening more on the wheel the closer he got. Cuddy was in the garage with the door open, obviously waiting for her husband to come home, the gap there invitingly for his car and her head turning to check the empty driveway about every 15 seconds, checking her watch at least every other time she looked outside. However, she was also clearly in the middle of in-depth, frenetic cleaning and reorganization of everything stored there. As Jensen turned into the driveway, she paused in her whirlwind of activity at the anticipated headlights, then stared, her eyes widening in horror as Jensen's car with her husband slumped in the other seat registered. Her initial reaction wasn't just concern; it was pure panic. A box fell from suddenly nerveless fingers.

The psychiatrist quickly switched off the car and darted out. "He's okay, he's okay," he assured her. "He just fell asleep, that's all; he's not hurt. He was too tired to drive home, so I gave him a lift."

Cuddy's eyes were locked on her husband, and she was hyperventilating. Then, with an effort as obvious as it was inadequate, she got a grip on herself and pretended that nothing was wrong. "Of course. That's why it took so long, I guess; I was about to call. Thanks for bringing him home. He's been working too hard this week."

Jensen took a double-fisted grip of his psychiatric instincts, which were going off loud and clear and demanding action. He hadn't had an opportunity himself to interact with Cuddy since Tuesday afternoon before her ordeal. He had only gotten brief summary sentences here and there since from House, but obviously House was, as usual, dead-on in his diagnosis. Cuddy needed help herself and needed it badly. But tonight was not the time to launch into that, with her own tiredness and her husband's total exhaustion. Tonight wouldn't have been the time even assuming she would have accepted help right now, which he knew she wouldn't, and that he was the correct one to provide it, which he knew he wasn't. He could never establish a patient-therapist relationship with Cuddy on her own issues. He was too tied to House's struggles in her mind; she would never be able accept him independently on her own behalf, only somewhat where her difficulties were an extension of House's, which right now they weren't.

She desperately needed her own therapist, but more than that, right now, she needed rest, and so did House. Tonight was not the time to push her.

It took every ounce of willpower he had, but Jensen backed off and accepted her blatant lie that everything was okay. "He's _definitely_ been working too hard, but I'll be forever grateful to him. Already was, of course, with Cathy, but doubly so now." He looked at the garage, which looked like a tornado had hit it. She had been at work out here for a while already, and it was worth at least a few more manic hours to put it back together. Jensen looked back at House. "He's hit his limit for now. He's got to recharge some before he's going to be able to keep functioning; he needs somebody to look after him tonight, to make sure he gets to bed and then to stay there and keep an eye on him." He emphasized the last words, just in case she got tempted to tuck House in and then return to the garage herself to finish the project while further wearing herself out by running back and forth to check on him at intervals.

Cuddy accepted the change of assignment, as he had hoped. Beneath her frantic control quest, the basic feelings for House were as strong as ever, and that initial panic Jensen had seen a few minutes ago spoke volumes. He realized that she was even more terrified about the physical condition of her family than just about losing control of things in general; he'd have to mention that to House tomorrow, since he didn't think the other man had grasped that point yet. This wasn't merely a control reaction to a bad experience or generic worry of the unknown; there was something extremely specifically tied to family there in her mind. A nice mine for somebody else to excavate professionally at some other time than tonight. Jensen once again forced himself to back off and leave her alone for the moment.

She walked over to the passenger's side of Jensen's car and took another moment for a few deep breaths before opening the door. House slumped at the sudden loss of support, and she caught him. "Greg?" Jensen, having already had the experience of waking him up twice tonight, wasn't at all surprised that House didn't respond. It would take more than a soft, gentle word at the moment, even from her. Cuddy doubled the volume. "Greg?" He still didn't stir, and Jensen saw her worry kick back up, heading once again for overdrive.

"He's just worn out," the psychiatrist said. "I found him asleep in his office a little while ago, and I all but had to drag him off his chair."

Cuddy gripped her husband's shoulder and shook him sharply, harder than she wanted to. "Greg! Come on, you're home." Finally, she got a response as he shifted away from her. "Come on, Greg." She kept shaking him. Slowly the blue eyes, bloodshot with fatigue, opened. "You're home, Greg, but I can't carry you in like the girls and put you to bed. You're too big."

He grinned at the image and then shifted his legs over. "Okay, I'm awake." A couple of surreptitious rubs at his thigh, and then he lurched to his feet, holding onto the car door as he took a few seconds to catch his balance. He blinked at the work in progress at the garage, then looked back at his wife. "What happened here?"

"I was reorganizing the garage," she stated.

"At this hour?"

"Oh, I took a monitor out to keep an ear on the girls. You don't need to worry about them." Her tone was brisk, matter of fact. House looked at Jensen with worried, helpless eyes.

"Get some sleep," the psychiatrist recommended. "Both of you need that more than anything else right now."

House sighed. "Okay. Come on, Lisa, the garage will wait. Let's go to bed. See you tomorrow, Jensen."

"Good night," the psychiatrist replied. He watched House's slow, slightly wobbly limp and Cuddy's firm, decisive - far too firm and far too decisive, artificially so - steps as the two of them walked through the garage. House hit the button by the door into the house, and the garage door came down, sealing them off from the rest of the world, at least for tonight.

Very slowly, deep in thought and concern, Jensen got back into his car and pulled out of the driveway, heading for Mark's milkshake, glad for a simple need that he could easily and quickly fix.


	44. Chapter 44

Cuddy was glued to House's side as he limped slowly toward their bedroom. She was so much glued to his side, her eyes zeroing in on his leg, analyzing, that it annoyed him all over again - or would have if he hadn't been so unbearably tired. Yes, her crippled husband was home for the night, totally exhausted, hadn't even been able to finish the case. He knew she was no doubt disappointed in him for that, too. He went through the bathroom and then more or less collapsed on the bed, starting to unbutton his shirt.

Cuddy ducked into the bathroom to get a glass of water for his evening pills, but when she came back out, he had fallen asleep again in mid-button. She set the glass down and finished the process of undressing him, going gently, but he wasn't even reacting to her hands. Once she got his clothes off, she removed his med bottles from the pockets and studied them, then her near-comatose husband. Now what? He was due for another round of pain pills, unless he'd already taken them. She didn't have the heart to wake him up again, though. They could skip the sleeping pill today; at the dose they had it trimmed down to now, its only purpose was to help shut down his overactive mind and keep him from getting stuck in insomnia. Obviously, insomnia wasn't going to be a problem tonight. Finally, she just left him asleep, but she did get out another heat patch from the nightstand and stick it to his leg just below the scar. That done, she worked the covers over him, ducked in for a quick check of the girls, and then undressed and got in bed herself. She didn't switch off the lamp on her nightstand, though. Instead, she lay there watching him.

He looked suddenly older tonight, all the lines on his face more tightly drawn. He was deeply, desperately asleep. He would often collapse like this after a several-day stretch on a tough case, but always at the end, after the victory or more rarely defeat. Tonight, he had checked out with the case still hanging, and he looked even more exhausted than usual. Three cases were simply too much; the pressure was wearing him out. If this unlikely situation ever came up again, she would put her foot down and insist that he take one at a time. He was going to break his health if he did something like this regularly.

Finally, she switched off the lamp and snuggled down against him, not setting the clock for once. He needed all the sleep he could get before returning to the hospital in the morning as she knew he would. Cuddy's eyes would not stay closed, though. They kept springing back open, wanting another look in the dim street light from the road. He never moved. "I love you," she whispered, a desperate attempt to claim him, to hold onto him, to keep him safe. Finally, against her will, sleep claimed her.

Belle crept out of the corner after Cuddy's breathing leveled out. The white cat jumped up onto the bed and sniffed over House with concern, head to toe, giving his hand a few licks. Her inspection complete, she settled down on the other side of him, away from Cuddy, pressed against the heat patch with the covers between. She tucked her paws in and closed her eyes, the picture of feline comfort, but tonight, she did not purr.

(H/C)

House's eyes sprang open as if some cosmic alarm clock had gone off, summoning him to action. He still felt exhausted, knew that his body needed more, but his mind was clearer again. He was pinned in the darkness, Cuddy Velcroed to him on the left, a smaller and more rounded pressure to the right, and it was this that had woken him up, he realized, rather than knocking him into a nightmare. Once he'd gotten past absolute depletion into a more normal sleeping pattern, the double pressure had subconsciously reminded him of John. Cuddy he understood, even expected, but what was on the right? He pulled a hand out and reached down, exploring, and Belle answered with a brief purr. He relaxed a little and scratched her ears, and his eyes went to the glowing figures on the clock. It was 3:30. He'd slept for about six hours, by far the longest stretch he'd had since Monday night. Maybe he would be functional enough to keep working now. Had to get the President's case solved.

It was the nearer problem his thoughts gravitated to first, though. He looked at Cuddy, clinging tightly to him in her sleep. What on earth was he going to do here? Sandra and Wilson would be trying to help this afternoon, but he didn't really hold out much hope. Jensen had said back on Wednesday that she would listen to him better than to anyone else, and so had Marina. But he'd tried, damn it. He'd used every strategy he could think of, including a sincere, adult conversation, and none of it made any impact. She simply did not see. No, she wouldn't let herself admit it, couldn't confess that she had been scared, so she subconsciously was trying to control her world and micromanage everything in it. Of course, any such effort to control every aspect of life was doomed, and the mood swings were getting worse as she wrestled with that failure.

But underlying the worry for her was the hurt on his own part after this week. How many times had she referred to his leg this week, to what he couldn't do? And even beyond the leg, she was disappointed in him. The fear that those actually were her true thoughts and had been all along chewed away at him. He didn't see the connection there to Sam and what had happened Tuesday night. How could a low opinion of him just be a result of her having been scared?

He sighed, and Belle gave a soft, questioning trill and moved up from his leg, where a heat patch was still giving out some warmth. She walked up to his shoulder and bumped his cheek. "Tell me what to do," he asked her. She gave a comforting purr, and House sighed again. "Thanks. That helped a lot. If that was an answer, could you repeat it in a language I know?"

Languages. Whatever language would reach her, it was apparently one that for all his linguistic skills, he could not speak.

A low murmur came over the monitor, Abby starting the process of waking up, and House suddenly felt guilty. On his exhausted trudge from the garage to bed last night, he hadn't even looked in on his sleeping girls. Some father he was. He extricated himself gradually from Cuddy, offering his pillow instead, and her hands tightened around it as she gave a protesting murmur, but she never woke up. She was sleeping so much more deeply than usual this week. Belle, much more cooperative, moved over to the edge of the bed out of his way. House was careful with the leg as he swung it out of bed, but the heat patch had helped, even with him pinned. The leg was hurting but wasn't going into a spasm.

She must have put the heat patch there. How could she be so caring and attentive at one moment and so sharp and deriding the next? House shivered slightly. Early morning had a chill in it, even in the beginning of June. Yes, that had to be the reason for the clammy feeling all over him. After standing up, he grabbed his sleep pants and T-shirt and pulled them on. Closing the bedroom door behind him, he went to the nursery and stepped into the room, turning on the light just as Abby woke up. She opened her eyes and turned toward the door with the briefest flash of uncertainty and confusion across her face. It relaxed a second later into a true smile. "Dada!" she greeted him gladly.

House froze.

That look. He recognized it. Not yet true fear but fear's prelude, the bewildered effort to try to make sense of the world gone mad, of wondering which version of someone would be there any moment, Jekyll or Hyde. There had been true doubt there just for a brief second when she hadn't known who was coming in. She had no reason to expect anybody except him or Cuddy in the night, and she relaxed immediately as she registered him.

A different flavor of puzzlement was taking over Abby's features now, and she tilted her head slightly, looking at him with his own electric blue eyes. "Dada okay?"

House took a deep breath and forced himself to smile back at her. "I'm fine, Abby." He limped forward to the crib and reached over to switch off the monitor on the table next to it. "Need a change?"

Rachel had been more soundly asleep than usual herself, but right then, she shifted in her bed, the toddler bed they had given her at Christmas. Her head was turned away from the door. House hesitated, then forced himself to do the test. He held up one finger across his lips first to Abby, a signal she recognized, and she was quiet as a mouse as House walked the few feet to Rachel's bed, minimizing the limp as much as he could and ignoring his leg's protest. Without saying a word, he reached out and put a hand on Rachel's shoulder, just as Cuddy often woke her up. Rachel finished waking up slowly, perhaps the only thing she routinely did slowly, but as soon as consciousness returned, she suddenly tightened up and looked around. He was watching her eyes, watching for that first half second before she recognized him, and he saw what he had dreaded to again.

"Dada!" she shrieked.

Abby giggled, having thoroughly enjoyed watching her father sneak up on her sister in what she could only believe was a game. "Prise!" she called.

Rachel scrambled to the edge of the bed and hugged him. "You _work_ late, Dada."

"I'm sorry. I'll try to do better." Guilt was really settling in now. He turned back to Abby, mechanically changing her diaper, but his mind was racing now at speeds that even the motorcycle full throttle could not match.

"Good morning!" Rachel stated enthusiastically.

"No, it's not. Still the middle of the night. We've still got lots of sleeping left to do." He had to get them back to sleep. And then, once they were out, he would go back across the hall and wake up Cuddy, and this time, he was not backing down or letting the subject drop. He hadn't been here for the girls this week, but he was here for them now.

"No!" Rachel objected, not liking the sound of lots of sleeping left to do. She started to slide out of bed. "Time to play."

"Not quite," House corrected. "But after you go back to sleep, when you wake up again, we'll all have breakfast together. And I'll sing to you now to help you back to sleep. Okay?"

Abby settled back contentedly as he finished doing up the tabs on her diaper. "Sing, Dada."

"I will as soon as your sister gets back in bed."

Abby glared at Rachel. "NOW!" she said with that flash of iron that peeped out once in a blue moon to totally shock those who thought she was only a sweet little thing.

Rachel stuck out her tongue at her sister, even while she was moving to obey, slowly but definitely moving. "What did you girls do last night when I wasn't here?" House asked, carefully casual.

"Watched 'Drella," Rachel provided. "And Belle. . ." She burst into laughter as she climbed back into bed.

"What about Belle?"

"Chased the mice!"

"On the TV, you mean?" He thought he remembered mice in Cinderella.

"Yes. Until Mama . . ." Rachel's amusement wilted suddenly.

"Did she get mad at Belle?"

Rachel nodded. "GET OUT OF THE WAY!" she yelled, obviously trying to reproduce annoyed Cuddy.

House smiled, even though he didn't feel like it. "What happened then?"

"Belle ran. Mama mad."

"No Belle," Abby piped up.

"She was hiding the rest of the evening?" They both nodded. "I saw her a few minutes ago. She's fine. What happened after the movie?"

Rachel turned sullen. "Bed." Obviously, she had wanted to stay up longer. "Dada, why Mama mad?"

House flinched. "She's had some bad days at the hospital lately. Did Mama tuck you in?"

"Yes. Read a book. Mad at us?"

House closed his eyes. "No, Rachel, she's not mad at you. It's nothing you've done."

Rachel settled down, accepting that for the moment, and her thoughts turned to either the promised song or the promised breakfast together. "Sing!"

"Okay. Lie back down." Rachel immediately lay back down, as did Abby, and House sat down on the edge of Rachel's bed. He started out with a Disney song, something soft to soothe them, but before he realized it, he had switched into one they didn't know. They, of course, had never watched Sweeney Todd, which didn't come Disneyfied.

_Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around. _

_Nothing's gonna harm you, no sir, not while I'm around. _

He realized abruptly what he was singing and looked at them, half expecting a protest at the unfamiliar song, but they were already looking half asleep. He skipped some of the words, of the playful dialogue exchange, sticking with repeating the easy melody and promise of the chorus, hopefully a thought that could translate into 2-year-old terms.

_No one's gonna hurt you, no one's gonna dare._

_Others can desert you, not to worry, _

_Whistle, I'll be there_.

They were asleep again, lulled off by his voice. He sat there looking from one to the other of them, his daughters, and he repeated the last line one more time to the silent room.

_Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around._

House stood up and switched off the light, only the soft glow of the nightlight filling the room. He watched them for another minute, reassuring himself. They were okay. He didn't think even now that she had actually physically harmed them, but the emotional cauldron seething in the house this week obviously was affecting them, rocking the security of their world.

His shoulders squared, and he wasn't aware of his limp as he left the nursery, carefully closing the door behind him, and then re-entered the bedroom, closing that door tightly too. He stood there for a minute looking at her, sound asleep, hugging his pillow. Along with the worry and fear for her, this time there was rock-solid determination in him. It had gone on for too long. It ended now.

He walked over to her side of the bed, and Belle followed him with her gaze, eyes glowing in the dark. "You'd better hide," he said softly. The cat looked at him for a moment, then leaped off the bed, melting away as cats do into the darkness. House turned on the lamp on the nightstand on Cuddy's side. "Lisa," he said. She stirred slightly in her sleep, and he reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. "Lisa."

She opened her eyes, twisting around to face him, surprised to see him standing on her side of the bed. "Greg? Is something wrong?"

"Yes."

She got out of bed, immediately checking him over. "What is it? Your leg? Are you. . ."

"_Listen_ to me." He swatted off her hand, which was trying to check him for a fever. "Get back in bed and listen." She was starting to tighten up in suspicion now, obviously wondering if this was his latest move on this fixation of his. "_Please_, Lisa. Get back in bed. I'd rather have this conversation quietly here than closer to the door where the girls can hear, but we are having it if I have to chase you down the street. And _don't_ tell me that I couldn't keep up in a chase. I swear, I'd find a way. We aren't doing anything else until you've heard what I have to say."

Cuddy was looking at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Greg, what on earth is wrong with you?"

"_GET BACK IN BED_," he demanded, and he jumped, suddenly hearing it in his father's voice, as indeed he often had. _Oh shut, up, you bastard. You have NO part in this discussion._

Cuddy stared at him, at a tone she had never heard from him. Concern and defiance were warring in her face, but she slowly got back in bed and sat there, staring at him, waiting, her chin up slightly.

"I was just in with the girls to change Abby."

She flipped moods again, starting to get back up. "Are the girls okay? Is something?"

"_Sit down_." She dropped back onto the edge of the bed, sitting there looking at him. "The girls are okay. For now."

"What do you mean, for now?"

He took a deep breath. "Lisa, you're mistreating them this week." Her head snapped up in shocked denial. "Not physically, I know, but there are other ways, and this is well on the way toward becoming emotional abuse."

Her jaw dropped. "How _dare_ you accuse me of abusing our daughters."

"I didn't necessarily say it was there yet, but if you don't do something, it will be soon. Only it won't, because if you won't do something, I will. All week, you can't admit that you're scared. Guess what, Lisa? You're _human_. Just like the rest of us. _Yes_, you were scared, and you should have been. But bottling all that up is coming out in other ways. The mood swings, the criticisms, the micromanaging. Lisa, when I went in there just now, I saw it in their eyes, just for a second, for that first second when they heard me but didn't see yet which one of us came in. They're confused, Lisa. Trying to make sense of the world, trying to figure out somebody who is nice sometimes and flies off the handle the next moment. That's just the beginning." He could feel his soul starting to tremble, deep inside him. "That's the first stage. You wonder what's going on. Then you wonder if it's your fault somehow. Rachel was just _asking_ me if it was her fault. You try to figure out how to predict when the other person is safe and when they're not. And after a while, you give up wondering, and confusion just turns to fear. They aren't there yet. They aren't going to be, either." His voice was rock solid on the last line, even though he could feel his legs shaky beneath him, both of them, the good and the crippled together.

Cuddy looked both furious and flabbergasted. "Greg, I really think you're going off the deep end yourself here."

He shook his head. "I've _been_ off the deep end. My daughters aren't going to. Not now, not ever. Test it yourself, Lisa. They're asleep again. Walk over there softly, wake them up, and look at their eyes - really look at them - for that first second. If you're being honest with yourself, you'll see it. Lisa, this is too important to be in denial on. This isn't just about you, or me, or the hospital. This is our _children_."

"I'd never hurt them," she insisted.

"You have been all week. Last year, that afternoon I was panicked about testifying and was out buying props, I didn't realize how it was affecting you and the girls. You blew up at me that night, and you told me that I was putting you all in hell right now. It's my turn to say it back to you. This week has been _HELL_, Lisa. Open your eyes and see it. You're hurting our daughters." She looked absolutely stunned. House could feel his legs literally quivering now. He couldn't stand up here much longer. Maybe better to let her think; him falling over in front of her wouldn't help. "Test it out, Lisa. Go over there and see them and look for yourself. You'll see it. But if you won't even think about it, if you refuse to even consider what you're doing to our family, I'm going to have no choice but to step in for their sake." His whole body was almost quivering now. "If you won't think about this and get help, Lisa, I'm leaving until you do. And I'm taking them both with me."

He saw the naked fear in her face that time. He wanted nothing more than to go across and hug her, and he knew he couldn't. He couldn't comfort her away from the decision that he was driving her to the edge of. "I'd stay if it was just me. I'd go all the way down with you. But what you're doing to them this week is too much; I'm not going to let that get worse. But if . . . if we have to go, we'll always be there. Always. When you get some help, we'll be back." His whole body was shaking. "_Please, _Lisa, see for yourself. Go over and wake them up and really look in their eyes. We can't go on like this." He abruptly hit the limit of emotional endurance and turned away. "Please think about it," he begged her in a hoarse plea as he turned for the door.

House left the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and staggered as if drunk toward the living room, holding himself up on the wall. He reached the couch and sank down onto it.

This was it. Forget the intervention scheduled this afternoon; just now, he had made the last attempt that could be made. He knew there was no drawing back from what he'd just said, no further strategy to be offered. He only hoped she would see reason, but for the girls, he had to step in. That quick, tentative look of confusion had split his heart clear in two within him. He had to protect them. He hadn't lied; he did believe now that she was approaching the level of emotional abuse, and he was not going to let his daughters know that. Not now, not ever. Maybe she would listen. He'd meant the rest of what he said, too. If he retreated, it would only be for their emotional safety, and they would _always _be waiting for her. They would come back, gladly. There would never be any other family like this one.

His father's voice was whispering in his ear, the old statements of what a worthless coward he was, that no one could put up with him, and as much as House was trying not to listen, he couldn't help seizing on a new thought. What if she got into therapy, wanted the girls, but didn't want him anymore? What if the accusations he had just made, even though justified, were the last straw that broke her ability to put up with him?

What if they would never _be_ a family again? Not all four of them like before.

House could feel his body still trembling even though he was sitting down, and his breathing was ramping up. John was laughing over his shoulder. He realized that he was falling into a panic attack, and he reached for his meds, but he didn't have the bottles with him. They were back in the bedroom with her. He couldn't go back there, not yet. She was thinking about what he said. He couldn't go staggering into the room in search of Ativan right while she might be debating whether he was worth keeping around. He knew her devotion to the girls, even after this week, and he thought that when she saw their eyes, she would come around, but all the comments to him suddenly replayed in his ears. House leaned his head into his hands, trying to regulate his breathing. He sat there for an eternity on the couch, waiting for the verdict on his family, unaware of the slowly breaking dawn outside the window.

(H/C)

Cuddy slowly walked down the hall in her robe, each step an effort as one foot was placed in front of the other. Her mind was reeling. Could he actually be _right_? She didn't think she could have done that without noticing, but the possibility alone was even more terrifying than Tuesday night had been, and she couldn't believe that House would ever make that accusation to her out of manipulation. No, he truly believed it. That meant that either he was completely blinded to the truth here or that she was. She walked right past the closed nursery door without pause. Part of her was afraid to go in and wake up the girls as a test, but she also wanted more information from her husband. She would talk to him, ask him for more details, and examine his evidence. She still thought she'd been coping fairly well with this week, all things considered, but she would listen to his position. She couldn't risk ignoring it if he was right. And if he was wrong, it was a good thing Jensen's brother was better because she would insist that _he_ go for an emergency session or two. One of them truly needed help here; this wasn't just a difference of opinion.

She stopped in the end of the hall, looking into the living room. House was on the couch, head buried in his hands, his shoulders trembling. He wasn't crying, but she could hear his ragged, far too rapid breathing from where she stood. Her conscience stabbed at her; he clearly wasn't just grandstanding to change her mind on therapy. He had no idea she was even here.

She definitely needed to talk to him, but first, he needed to calm down. He was obviously in a panic attack, and still in his sleep pants and T-shirt, he didn't have his meds with him. She hurried back to their bedroom and retrieved the Ativan from the nightstand, getting out a pill for him, then returned to the living room, coming across to him. He still wasn't aware of her approach. "Greg?" she said, careful to speak before she touched him, not wanting him to think in the first moment she was John. He shied like a spooked horse, pulling away, retreating from her voice even before her hand gently touched his shoulder. Then, only a few scant inches later, he stopped, eyes still down, and held with just the slightest cringe away from her hand.

Cuddy stared at him, horrified.

In that moment, she realized what she had unintentionally done. His reaction, not that of the girls, proved it to her beyond any question. That hadn't been a reaction to John, and he hadn't relaxed a second later when there was no doubt who she was. He himself was afraid of her, not physically but emotionally, yet true to the training John House had hammered into him over the childhood years, he had stopped his own defensive retreat and merely sat there unresisting waiting for whatever emotional blow was next to fall. Though he would speak up for the girls, he had not spoken up for himself all week. Every argument he had made had been based on her need, never the effect on him, but it was the effect on him that now crumbled her walls into dust. She no longer needed any proof that she was damaging her family. She had it. "Oh, Greg."

She pushed the Ativan into his field of vision. "Take this, Greg." He took it without hesitation, obviously knowing he needed it. Yet he hadn't gotten up and come back to the bedroom to get it. He hadn't wanted to face her so soon after accusing her earlier.

He was _afraid _of her.

She had done that. No help from John or Blythe or anybody else. She had done that herself in just three and a half days. And the girls, too, not truly being afraid yet, as he'd said, but bewildered, confused at the change in her, wondering which version would be there any minute. Her daughters. Her heart twisted inside her and cracked. But even worse was her husband, who had been through so much in his life, with whom she had been far less inhibited and far more cruel, fitting herself neatly into the pattern that he already had ingrained from his past. The girls, never having known what abuse was, would recover much more easily from this than he would. Her whole week now shifted in her mind, like an optometrist's lens clicking into place, the picture suddenly clear and not at all what she had thought it was a moment ago.

Cuddy collapsed onto the couch next to him, her legs giving out, and she put a hand on his arm. "Greg," she started, and then she stopped, words breaking down before the enormity of her sin. How on earth did you even start to apologize for that? She had been hurting her family anyway all week, not Sam but she herself. Foreman had seen it at least to some extent and had tried to tell her. And House, she realized now, truly had had no hand in Foreman's mission or even knowledge of it.

His breathing slowly was evening out under the Ativan, though he still hadn't said anything since her approach. She could feel the tension still in him as he waited for a verdict, waiting to see if she would strike at him once more verbally or if she was going to listen. Now it was her turn to start shivering, increasing tremors running through her. He reached out to put an arm around her, and the supportive gesture after everything knocked a hole in the dam of her tears.

The tears burst forcefully through the shattered wreckage of her defenses, and she crumpled against him, unable to even speak, great sobs shaking her like an earthquake. It was the first time she had cried since Tuesday night.

House pulled her securely against him, letting her get it out, even though part of him felt awkward at this. Tears always left him wondering how to handle them. But he knew that, having jammed up herself for so long all week, she badly needed this release. It seemed like she had believed him at least, and the knot of fear inside him slowly started to unkink. The girls had been the argument that made the difference. If she would accept therapy, maybe things would be okay.

It seemed forever to Cuddy before the flood diminished to a trickle, an eternity in which she was only aware of the cold rock of her actions and of the warm arm of her husband holding her tightly throughout it. "Greg," she said finally. "I am so sorry."

Immediately, he turned her slightly and kissed her, and the kiss thawed out a little more of her soul. "Are the girls back asleep?" he asked a minute later.

She was confused momentarily. "I assume they're still asleep. We would have heard Rachel." Rachel could indeed be very loud.

"You didn't wake them up?" he asked. She shook her head. "You _need_ to, Lisa. I'm not trying to put you down, but you need to see this. I want to make sure you really believe it."

"Greg, I don't need to wake up the girls. I saw you a minute ago. That's total proof."

It was his turn to be confused. "But I . . . they would be a lot better."

Cuddy shook her head, getting annoyed now alongside her guilt. "Listen, you thickheaded genius. I saw what I've done to _you_ this week. I'm not questioning what I did to them, but I did even more to you. I don't _need_ any other proof. Let them sleep while they can; we need to talk."

"What you did to me?"

Cuddy sighed. "You are _worth_ defending yourself. Why didn't you say something? I've . . ." Memories were flooding back as from a dream. "I told you I was disappointed in you. I've _laughed_ at you. So many little things, and you were only trying to help me. But you never said anything for yourself. Greg, you _don't have _to just _take_ things like that. Not from anybody, not even me."

He studied her. Yes, she had hurt him, but that still seemed smaller than the girls or her own need of therapy in his eyes. Therapy. "You need help, Lisa," he insisted, changing the subject. "Not just to talk to me. You are having trouble dealing with this."

She looked down at his hand on hers. "I know," she said softly, surrendering the desperate illusion of control. "I . . . I will, Greg." He relaxed a little more. Then she unintentionally gave him back a piece of what she unintentionally had taken away this week. "But would you go with me? I don't think I have the courage to go alone, not like you did."

Part of his cramped soul stretched and released itself. "Of course I will if it would help you. But will you really talk in front of me?"

She nodded. "At least the first time, please go with me. That way you can stop me if I start to run."

He flinched. "I can't run after you."

Cuddy cringed, realizing how many shots at that target she'd taken this week, too. "You _can_ do everything you need to, Greg. Your heart is strong enough. Your leg doesn't matter." She leaned in to kiss him again, that time more familiar, like coming home after a long journey. "I didn't mean to be putting you down this week physically. I swear, Greg, that's _not_ what I really think." She felt him relax a little more but still not completely. It would take time to get past that. Then a new thought entered the field, and she felt his physical reaction to it. "What is it?" He looked away. "Greg, please, tell me what you're thinking."

He debated for a moment, then launched into the one area he had felt like defending this week and had been holding himself back on. "What I still don't understand is why getting taken hostage Tuesday night would make you lose all professional trust in me."

She stared at him, floundering. "_What?_"

"You didn't trust me, not even as a doctor."

She forced herself to listen instead of just reacting. She'd done far too little listening and far too much reacting this week. "What makes you think that?"

"The way you've been keeping tabs on me at work. Every hour at least, sometimes more. You were around every corner, _making sure I was still working_. I don't see the connection to Tuesday night there. Why did you stop trusting me at work?"

Cuddy closed her eyes, for the first time looking at that from his perspective. "It wasn't that, Greg. I know I said I needed to make sure you were still working, but that's not what I meant. That was just a front." Even Foreman had seen through that one, but she realized now that House himself hadn't been able to get past his own insecurities. "I _do_ respect you as a doctor, Greg. And as a person, but you are the best doctor I've even known, not just the best one at our hospital."

"Then why babysit me?" he asked. She could hear the war in his own tone, trying to keep the hurt from preventing him from listening.

"I just wanted to _see_ you. To know you were all right. He . . . Sam . . . told me. . ." She was starting to shiver again, and House tightened his grip on her. "He told me I'd never see my family again." For the first time, she repeated that statement to somebody else. "It just made me realize how quickly things can change. Something could happen. Any moment. And you've been assaulted, attacked, shot, taken hostage yourself. You have more enemies than anybody else on staff. I was afraid something would happen to you physically, so I needed to keep checking on you." She suddenly felt the most incredible release for having simply explained that, having repeated Sam's threat aloud instead of just in her own mind and admitted that she was afraid for her family. The fear itself was still there but the painful pressure of stuffing it behind a wall was gone.

House was silent for a moment. "That's why you were pestering Marina that first day, too."

She nodded. "Just keeping tabs on the family. I wouldn't let myself admit it, though. But you have been a lot more at risk than they have over the years. I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you, Greg." She started crying again, and he pulled her over even more tightly, lost in a mixture of relief, love, and bewilderment. He was _that_ important to her?

The tears were shorter lived this time. Cuddy somewhere beneath the enormous guilt and shame was starting to feel better, more like herself than she had all week. Denial alone had been a heavy burden on her, and it was such a relief to lay it down, like stepping out of dirty, soiled clothes. "What else, Greg?" He was silent. "Please, tell me. Give me a chance here. You've said work. I know I've made some comments about your leg. What else has especially hurt you this week that I don't know about yet?"

"The press conference," he admitted finally.

"What about it?"

"You didn't want me. I said I'd go with you to be there, but you didn't need me. Not like me in court."

Cuddy shook her head. "I wanted you there more than anything, Greg. I just couldn't admit it. Asking you that would have taken you away from work, and I couldn't admit that I personally was having problems. But do you know how I got through that conference? I'll show you on my cell phone after we get dressed. I took a picture of that picture in my office. That's the one Sam was looking at when he said I'd never see my family again. I had my cell phone on that picture lying on the podium the whole time, and I kept looking down at you. You _were_ there. I couldn't have gotten through it otherwise." She suddenly remembered something else. "It was after that that you asked me if I'd still come to court next month, wasn't it?"

He nodded, and she felt a tremor run through him. "I can't do that without you there. In person."

"I'll be there. I _will_ be there, Greg. I wish I'd been strong enough to let you be at that press conference for me." She gave him another kiss for reassurance, and that one started to heat up. They were just changing positions on the couch when Rachel's voice was heard even through the closed door. "Dada? Mama?"

House and Cuddy both were laughing as they broke away. "We have to have a conversation with our daughter about timing," he said.

Her grin faded. She had to have a conversation with her daughter about other things, too. He read her mind. "Don't obsess into too much there, Lisa. The girls will be fine. Kids are resilient. They aren't old enough to know everything yet anyway."

"I hurt our daughters," she insisted. "And you." She couldn't believe it the more she thought over her actions and comments from the last several days.

"They'll be fine," he repeated. He didn't mention himself. Not that he was saying he wouldn't be fine; he was leaving himself out of consideration automatically, just as he had not stood up for himself against her. That worried her deeply, as did realizing how some of her comments had played right into his baseline insecurities. She wasn't the only one who needed some help after this week. Jensen was going to have several things to work through with House. "Lisa," House called, snapping his fingers. She jumped and focused. "It's all right. Don't crucify yourself; you're not much use to them dead. Just go on being their mother. That's all they want."

"So what - besides everything - am I _supposed_ to tell them?" Some sort of apology was appropriate.

House thought for a moment, then fell back on Jensen. "Just tell them you've had a bad week."

She sighed. "That's an understatement."

"I know. But it's not a lie. And Lisa, the week is almost over. It will be okay. In time, with some help, it will be okay."

She knew that it wouldn't be that easy - maybe with the girls, but not with herself or with him. But for the first time this week she felt like maybe she was at least starting the road in that direction. She kissed him again quickly. "I love you, Greg."

"I love you, too," he answered, and they stood up to head back to the nursery just as Rachel's hand on the doorknob was heard.

**This story now goes on hold for a few weeks while I work out another project. It's not quite December 1st, I realize, but there is no better place to put this on hold. It will resume with more House/Cuddy/girls, the President's diagnosis, lots of work for Jensen, and Cuddy's own therapy getting started. Till then, thanks to all the readers. I'll be back soon. **

**ItH**


	45. Chapter 45

A/N: Hi, readers, and Merry Christmas a day late! I'm back. Still doing final proofing on my other story, but it will be submitted by the end of the week. Hope everybody has had a wonderful holiday season.

(H/C)

Cuddy held back suddenly as they approached the nursery door. She didn't want to see it; she believed House. She knew, though, that what she wanted wasn't important here. What was _needed_ mattered. House paused himself. "You need to, Lisa. I apologize, but you need to."

"I know," she admitted softly. She had to face this, no more denial, no more curtains. She had to acknowledge what she'd done to her family to give her added fuel to fix it. His hand squeezed hers silently, a gesture of love and support and approval that nearly overwhelmed her right then, as she didn't really feel at the moment that she deserved any of the three.

Rachel finally managed to get the door open; she still had some trouble with doorknobs, added to by getting in a hurry with them. She dashed out and looked both ways of the hall, turning nearly a complete circle of quick debate on which way to run. Spotting them, she paused, and Cuddy saw it. The quick burst of tension and uncertainty as Rachel looked at her before she zoned in on House. "Morning!" she called, prancing up to them. "Morning, Dada, Mama."

"Good morning, Rachel," House replied. "And yes, it really _is_ morning this time." He moved past her into the nursery to get Abby.

"Good morning, Rachel," Cuddy said, and Rachel gave her a hug. Her daughter was perfectly willing to accept friendly and in-a-good-mood mother; she had just paused subconsciously to make sure which one she was dealing with at the moment first. Cuddy felt her eyes welling up. "Do you need to go potty? Come on." She ducked into the main bathroom, followed by Rachel, and when they emerged a few minutes later House, holding Abby, was just exiting the nursery.

"Morning, Mama!" Abby called. The same momentary hesitation, just for a second, before the smile.

Cuddy took her from her husband, hugging her tightly, burying her nose in her hair and smelling the scent of baby. "Good morning, Abby."

Rachel tugged on her leg. "Breakfast!"

House chuckled. "Got your priorities in order, haven't you, Rachel?"

"Speaking of priorities." Cuddy sighed. "Yes, we will have breakfast, but come here a minute, Rachel." She walked into the living room and sat down, still holding Abby. "I want to talk to you girls for a minute."

Rachel shook her head, holding back. "Wasn't bad. Maybe Abby. Not me."

House burst out laughing. "She thinks she's in trouble. Not that kind of talking to, Rachel. You just got up; you'd have to work to get in trouble that fast."

Cuddy forced a smile. "No, Rachel, you're not in trouble. Come here." Rachel slowly advanced. House sat down next to Cuddy, right up against her, a warm column of support to help hold her up through this, and he picked up her hand again, stroking it. Rachel stopped in front of her mother, looking at her. Cuddy took a deep breath, then stalled again. House gave her hand a silent squeeze.

Rachel tilted her head. "Talk or breakfast?" she prompted.

Cuddy's smile wasn't forced that time. Such an impetuous, impatient whirlwind of life Rachel was. "We need to talk, Rachel. Just for a minute, then breakfast. Girls, I know lately I've been . . ." She paused and looked at House, wondering what the 2-year-old version of phrasing this might be.

"Tense? Snappy? In a bad mood?" he suggested.

"Right. All of those. I just wanted to apologize to you. I had a very bad week this week, but it's over now. I was taking it out on you girls, and that wasn't right. I apologize."

Abby spontaneously reached up to give her a hug. Rachel took a little longer. "Not mad at us?"

Cuddy closed her eyes briefly, very aware of House next to her. "No. I'm not mad at you. I never was mad, Rachel. It just seemed that way because I was dealing with some other things. You haven't done anything wrong." Rachel came in for her hug then, and House joined them, a tight family knot of four. Rachel was the first to pull away.

"Better now, Mama?"

"Yes. It's better now. Last week was a bad one, but it's over." With a lot of clean-up still to be done, but that part wasn't in the 2-year-old version.

Rachel nodded with satisfaction. "Good. So breakfast?"

Cuddy grinned, suddenly thinking that family life might actually be able to resume as usual. "Okay. We'll have breakfast now." Rachel galloped toward the kitchen, and Cuddy set Abby down and stood up. Abby headed off after her sister.

House pried himself up slowly off the couch and embraced her. "I'm proud of you," he said softly. Cuddy was about to protest, and he silenced her the best way possible.

Rachel's demand came from the kitchen door after a moment. "No kissing! Breakfast now!"

Laughing, they pulled apart and headed for the kitchen.

(H/C)

The call came as the meal was almost over. Only House was still eating, his nerves enough on edge from the past week that it was still a little bit of an effort to get down each bite. His mind was telling his body that it was all over, but his body wasn't quite buying it yet. Cuddy grabbed the main phone and answered while he was still trying to get up. "It's for you, Greg. Kutner." She handed the phone over, trying to decide how much of the tension in Kutner's tone was due to the case and how much to talking to her.

"What's going on?" House's eyes focused, and Cuddy could almost feel the transmission shifting gears as he returned his thoughts to the case.

"House, I think it's time we gave up on saving all the toes. The lesser toes are totally black this morning, his fever's up, and inflammation is spreading. If we want any chance at saving the great toes, he needs amputation and debridement."

House sighed. "Agreed. I was afraid last night we'd get to that point this morning. Okay, go ahead and get a surgery consult and whack 'em off. At least that will give us something for pathology. We can ID this pesky little bug from that after the operation."

"Right, but the trouble is, the President isn't cooperating. He won't take my word for it or Taub's either. He insists he wants you in person to tell him they can't be saved before he'll do anything. So we need you at the hospital."

House looked at Cuddy, and she heard the transmission shift again, with a bit of a clunk as it roughly crossed to the new gear. "I don't think that's a good idea. Maybe he'd talk to me by phone? I'm kind of tied up here at home, and . . ."

Cuddy snatched the phone away. "Kutner, do you need House there?"

Kutner had an almost audible gear shift himself as he reacted to the new audience. "Um, yes. The President insists on being examined by him before he'll agree to surgery."

"Okay. He'll be there in half an hour. Thank you." She clicked off.

House and Rachel both fired up simultaneously. "Lisa, I don't think . . ." "BAD Mama. You snatched."

Cuddy took those comments in reverse order. "You're right, Rachel. I apologize, Greg, that was impolite of me. Now get dressed and head for the hospital. The President needs you."

He shook his head, digging in. "The President can wait in line."

"You can't do that, Greg. He's a priority case." He looked immovable. "I'll be okay for a few hours. That's all it will take. You just said this guarantees you a diagnosis today from pathology." His eyes tracked from her to the girls, still in their high chairs at the table and watching this exchange. She dropped her voice to a soft accusation, pointing blame at herself, not him. "You don't trust me alone with them, do you?"

"Actually, I'm more worried about _you_ right now." He dropped to a near whisper himself. "I don't think you'll do anything with them, not now that you know you were too snappy with them this week. But I _do_ think you might well knit yourself into a whole sweater trying too hard not to. And you'll be worrying about me as soon as I'm out of sight besides. That much tension with nowhere to let it be expressed is what scares me - for _you_, Lisa."

She couldn't help tightening up at the thought of him being out of sight. "The President needs you, Greg," she repeated.

"I'm not married to him."

Rachel banged her high chair tray. "No whispers!" she protested, frustrated at this inaudible but clearly intense exchange.

Cuddy scrambled for a compromise. "How's this, Greg? Why don't I call the evening sitter? She missed her usual last night because we didn't have date night, and she might appreciate some make-up money. I still have a few hours to go putting the garage back together. I can ask if she'd help watch and play with the girls in the yard while I worked on that; it's really not something I could do with them underfoot anyway. So somebody else would be here as a buffer, and I wouldn't have to deal with everything alone and would have something to throw nervous energy into. And it _would_ only take you a few hours." He tilted his head, considering. She tried to add a carrot dangled for his curiosity. "Wouldn't you like to know what his diagnosis is? You can. It's right there waiting for you at the hospital."

"That's not fair," he protested, but she saw the gleam in his eyes, even through the concern.

"Life's not fair. Go on, Greg. We can't ignore the President's case; that would hurt the hospital."

He ran over the plan, then slowly, reluctantly nodded and handed her the phone. He waited until she was dialing the sitter before heading back to the bedroom. Ten minutes later, after a blitzkrieg shower, he returned dressed. Rachel and Abby were out of their chairs now, playing in the floor with Cuddy watching them. "Is she coming?"

"Yes. She was glad of the chance; she's saving up for something." Cuddy hugged him tightly, and he felt the slight, brave tremor in her arms. "Go on, Greg."

He released her. "Call me when you need to. I can always talk to you for a minute." Now that he realized the motivation, the thought of constant check-ups wasn't annoying.

"I will," she promised. "Drive carefully, Greg." This time, he heard the concern there, not judgment.

"Will do." He kissed her again, then each of the girls. "I'll be back in a few hours," he announced grandly. "America needs me."

(H/C)

House called her immediately on arrival, sitting astride his motorcycle in a handicapped spot at PPTH. She sounded a little tense but functioning, and the sitter had arrived. Relieved, he called Wilson to cancel the intervention that afternoon, reporting that Cuddy was agreeing to therapy and that everything would be okay. Wilson sounded nearly as relieved as he did about that; the oncologist obviously had not been looking forward to helping House and Sandra confront Cuddy. Once inside, he went straight to 3 West. Kutner's assessment had been spot-on; it was time to cut their losses, literally.

The President looked morosely at his feet. He was flushed and sweating now, the fever rising as the poison from his toes swept into his body. "You're _sure_ there's no other way?"

"No. Not at this point." House probed the toes again. "I think we can still save the big toes, and they're the most important for balance anyway. They're not black yet, and maybe they'll pink up with the others removed. But the others are slowly poisoning you. There is no way around amputation of _something_. The longer you delay, the more you'll lose, and the sicker you'll get in general." He shook his head in frustration. Damn it, what _was_ this? He ought to know. Something was tickling at the back of his mind. But right now, even if he'd had a diagnosis this minute, the smaller toes were beyond salvaging.

The President still looked in shock. "This can't happen. I run."

House felt a stab of white-hot anger at the unfairness of life. "I ran, too. It _can_ happen." He let his cane fall against the bed rails, a bitter thud echoing through the room.

The First Lady touched her husband. "We have to do this, Steve. Listen to Dr. House."

He sighed and then slowly nodded. "Only take as much as you have to," he pleaded.

House straightened up. "I'll promise you that. Okay, we need to get a surgeon on board. We'll get the best results with a specialist doing this, somebody skilled in microdissection. We can get a consult while you hand over the country for the moment. You should be in surgery within two hours at the most." Actually, they should have already had a surgeon on this case, ready and scalpel poised, but the President had refused to allow the contingency plan to this point. "Once I have a toe for pathology, we can identify the root cause. We'll have the answer today."

When he left 3 West a minute later, his limping stride was pure sympathetic frustration. He didn't like the man, but still, he hated seeing this happen to anybody. Kutner and Taub wearily trailed him, and as they entered the elevator, he remembered that these two had been playing laboratory pursuit all night while he himself got some sleep. "Go home," he ordered as the elevator doors shut. "I'll take it from here."

They both shook their heads. "I'm seeing this one through," Kutner insisted. "I want to know the answer."

"So do I," Taub agreed.

"So go take a nap in the doctor's lounge, then. It will be a few hours. I want to watch the surgery, but no reason you need to. I'll wake you up when we have toes to work with."

After a moment, they agreed, and House alone exited at 4. He limped to his office, entered slowly, and pulled up with a jerk at the sight of Jensen sitting in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"Good morning," said the psychiatrist.

House eyed him. "Still haven't found that milkshake?"

"Found and delivered last night. I was waiting for you."

"I kind of got that impression, this being my office and all." House limped over and sat down behind his desk, facing the other man.

Jensen studied him. House still looked exhausted but also relieved. "Did you get some sleep last night?" He had, clearly, but also clearly not enough.

"Yes, I did. A whole six hours' worth." He saw Jensen's slight frown. "Yes, I know that doesn't make everything up, but it's enough to run on for the moment. You don't need to make up excuses to be here checking on me. Lisa finally agreed this morning to go into therapy, so everything's good now."

"That's wonderful."

"Yes, but you'll have to wait for a blow-by-blow. I don't have time for a session this morning."

"I wasn't going to suggest one," Jensen replied. "That's not why I'm here."

House looked at him, irresistibly seeing a new puzzle. "Then why . . ."

His cell phone rang, and he pulled it out. Cuddy. "Hi. How's it going?"

"Making progress in the garage. I just . . . wanted to hear your voice for a minute."

"Glad it doesn't take much to please you," he quipped. "I'm fine. The President is heading for surgery, but we have to play mother-may-I first with the country, so it will take an hour or so."

"Do you think he'll be all right?"

"So far, the infection, whatever it is, seems confined to his feet. So yes, in general, I do, once we get rid of the bad tissue." He was aware of Jensen on the other side of the desk, but he had confidentiality with Jensen. Besides, the world would have an update on the President itself soon. "I should have the diagnosis in another few hours, like I said, soon as we get something for pathology. I'll be home before too long. How are the girls?"

"Playing in the yard. Rachel wanted to help me in the garage, so I gave her just a small corner."

House grinned. "How long did she last?"

"Only about two minutes. Then she decided this was boring, so off she went to run circles. I'll let you get back to work, Greg."

"Okay. Call me when you need to."

"I will. I love you."

"I love you, too." He hung up and looked over at Jensen. "See? Exhibit A, Cuddy is cooperating, and all's right with the world. Except the third case, and that's getting there. So you don't have to keep checking on me today. Of course, we need to make an appointment for her with you, but I think she needs time with the family this weekend. She can start therapy Monday, maybe, if you could fit it in around Mark."

Jensen shook his head. "I don't need to take her on as a patient." House's expression hardened immediately, shutting down, and Jensen flinched. "I didn't mean it that way. I apologize; I should have phrased that better."

House stood up. "I shouldn't have assumed it. I can't blame you, really." He started for the door, in full retreat now. Jensen, of course, was faster and beat him there, physically blocking the exit.

"Stop it. This isn't about _you_." House had started to turn away toward the conference room door, but he paused at that, looking back with a challenging tilt of his head.

"You don't have to explain. Like I said, I understand."

"I _do_ have to explain because I didn't say it right in the first place. I'm not just at the limit already dealing with you and can't stand adding anything else named House."

House abandoned his retreat at this nutshell encapsulation. That was indeed exactly what he was thinking. "Then why not see her?"

"I would be perfectly willing to, but I don't think I'm the right choice for _her_." House considered this. "It's not because of you. Think about it for a minute. First of all, there's the pure practical fact that I'm two hours away - usually, at least. I really don't plan to make a habit of living at this hospital." That got a slight smile, as Jensen had hoped. "That four hours of driving per session for you is a wonderful opportunity to think and process and change gears, but for Dr. Cuddy, it would be four hours of time she'd think she could have been working instead."

After a moment, House nodded. "Good point. Hadn't thought of that one."

"It's not the only one, either. I think it would be very difficult for her to talk openly about herself with me. I'm too attached to your therapy in her mind. She could never separate them, and right now, she needs to focus on her own issues and not get distracted constantly to yours."

He had House's full attention now. "Go on."

"Furthermore, I really think she would work best with a woman therapist. She is a woman in what has often been a man's profession. There's an innate sense of competition there. I think it would be harder for her to get past it and admit what she sees as failures to a man."

House sighed, his shoulders sagging. "She needs help from _somebody." _

"Yes, she does. But there are many other professionals in this field. I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I would never work for her. And that has _nothing_ to do with being frustrated with you. I apologize for how I said that a minute ago."

House turned, walking back to his desk. "So do you know any good, female, local therapists?"

"Yes." Jensen returned to his former seat and pulled out his cell phone, flipping through the address book. After a minute, he reached for a post-it note pad on the desk and wrote down a name and number. Pulling the note off, he handed it to House. "That's the one I think would be the best match, but if Dr. Cuddy doesn't click with her, we can try somebody else."

House pocketed the note and sat down, suddenly feeling the heavy blanket of tiredness settle around his shoulders again. It was better this morning than it had been last night, but exhaustion still came and went in waves, like a tide. "Thanks. But if you're here to talk to me, I'd rather put that off to next week myself."

"Like I said at first, I wasn't going to suggest a session today."

House relaxed, then looked up quickly. "So why _are_ you here instead of in the ICU?"

"I want to buy you lunch."

House looked at his watch. "Too early."

"Call it brunch, then."

"You've actually been staking out my office, ignoring your brother, just for the chance to buy me a meal?"

"Yes. And Pam is with Mark. The kids and Melissa are arriving this afternoon. I wasn't sure when you'd get here, but I knew you would sometime this morning."

House studied him. "You're serious, aren't you? Wilson must be rubbing off on you. That's really why you were waiting here?"

"Yes, it is. Come on."

"I can't. My patient is crashing."

"You just told Dr. Cuddy on the phone that it would take an hour or so to get surgery approved through the channels. You're also back here at your office instead of at his bedside, and you weren't heading for the whiteboard when you came in, so clearly, you're in a gap."

"That was a private conversation, you know. It's impolite to eavesdrop on other people's phone calls."

"Sorry," Jensen replied, deliberately picking the word to remind House of Cuddy. House was indeed relieved, but there was still tension underneath it, and he was still far too tired. Jensen didn't think everything was as over as House was telling himself, but this morning was the wrong time to confront that. He stood up. "Come on, Dr. House. Let's go down to the cafeteria."

House shook his head, but he was slowly prying himself to his feet at the same time. "Have I told you lately how annoying you can be at times?"

"You mentioned it just last night, I believe," Jensen replied, and House grinned.

"Wilson is definitely rubbing off on you. Ah well, it's not like I can run away, being the cripple I am." Jensen cringed inwardly but left that alone. Another of the scars from Cuddy this last week; they'd _definitely_ have a few interesting sessions ahead. But not today.

Down in the cafeteria, Jensen carefully held the conversation on absolutely uncharged topics, mainly talking about Cathy and how her piano lessons with her new teacher were going. House at first had the expression of a petulant child being forced to eat his vegetables, but slowly, he relaxed, and actual hunger took over once he got started. He finished off the plate absentmindedly while talking and thinking about music. He had just put down his fork and looked at his empty plate in surprise when Jensen said, "I still wish I'd realized earlier what the problem was with her lessons. I could have saved her a lot of frustration there. Everything Melissa and I tried to encourage her or sort things out was based only on her and how she approached things. We somehow forgot that there are two sides to every story and that the problem might not be Cathy at all."

House's head snapped up suddenly, the blue lightning visible in his eyes and his face. "Two sides to every story . . . _damn _it." He lurched up from the chair so fast that he stumbled, caught himself impatiently with the cane, and left the cafeteria at his fastest limp. All week, he had been so focused on what the President had done, as had the President himself, and that irrelevant secret had blinded all of them to the truth.

Left behind in the cafeteria, Jensen looked at House's plate and the pushed-back, crooked chair on the other side of the table. His own smile of satisfaction slowly spread across his face. His cell phone rang, and he pulled it out, then answered. "Hi, big brother."

"What's going on, Michael? Run into the Cheshire cat?" Mark's voice was still much weaker than usual, but the warm presence behind the words was there.

"Nope. Just a good morning all around." Jensen stood up much more leisurely than House had and left the cafeteria, talking to his brother.


	46. Chapter 46

A/N: Good morning, and Happy New Year for tomorrow to all my readers. I've spent the last few days doing the final grooming and obsessing on my RL writing project, but that's submitted today, and Three Cases will move back onto the front burner. There is another Pranks story after this one titled Verdict, and that's the return of Patrick Chandler story with a serious plot twist I hope you'll like. It will be a lot shorter than this one and certainly shorter than Medical Homicide. More like Sick Day, but it packs a lot of punch on a small frame. It still isn't done, though, so when Three Cases ends, you might have another gap. Beyond Verdict, nothing in the House world. Yet. :)

Hope you enjoy the conclusion of this story. It has several chapters to go, but we're definitely over the hump now.

(H/C)

House drummed his fingers on his cane, trying to push the elevator along faster by will. He started to reach for his cell phone to summon Kutner and Taub, but on second thought, he left it alone. The only reason to call them would be to impress them with his epiphany, and that would keep. They were worn out.

That was the true irony of this epiphany, he thought, running his hand down his leg. Without the answer, the treatment had still been correct. House simply was beating the lab by a few hours, which was a personal point of satisfaction, but for the President, it would make no difference. The personal satisfaction, though, was something that never wore out, a rebuttal each time to John's recitation and to House's own old fears that he would never succeed in anything. He still had it.

Of course, he should have had it earlier had he not been distracted.

He exited at 3 West, limping past the security station without a word, on a beeline for the room at the end. The surgeon was just leaving and stepped back into the room as House entered.

"House," the man greeted and knew better than to wait for a reply. "I think we've definitely got a shot at saving the great toes once we get the others off."

House ignored him, moving to the side of the bed to face the President and his wife. "Bread," he said.

The President looked at him sourly, feeling too ill this morning for playing games. "What?"

"Bread. That's the answer. Trouble is, all week, every time I've asked you or her questions, both of you are preoccupied hoping I don't discover your secrets, and you aren't really thinking through my questions while worrying about that. And amazingly enough, your secrets really don't matter. So now, I'll tell you, not ask you. In some recent country you visited, you ate a large portion of locally made bread which was _not_ obtained from the meals for everybody. You alone. Ring any bells?"

It rang a whole handbell choir of them. The President looked over at his wife quickly. "But that wasn't a problem. Maddie ate it, too."

She looked away, guilt already moving in even though she didn't understand yet. "Not nearly as much as you did, Steve. But I did have a piece at first, Dr. House, and I'm perfectly fine. That can't be it."

"Okay, folks, toxin 101 here. Eating a _lot_ of a bad thing is worse than eating only a tiny bit of a bad thing. It was barley, right? Barley is excellent for ulcers, and since you've been having stomach trouble lately, it would have made you feel better. In fact, that's probably why you had almost all of it, isn't it?"

The First Lady nodded morosely. "I left it for him. I even went back and bought up the rest of that batch that I could find. He'd been barely eating, and he could eat that."

The surgeon had been listening to this with interest, and his own delayed epiphany abruptly hit. "You're thinking ergot?"

House nodded. "Yes. Standards are so tight here in the states it would be hard to run into it accidentally, but in some local, unregulated street market in another country, it could happen. The merchant might have even been sold some bad flour; he didn't necessarily grow it himself. South America has just finished a very wet growing season, and manure-fertilized fields can be deficient in copper, which helps create better conditions for the fungus to grow. It's usually thought of as a disease with rye, but it can grow on any of that family, and rye is hard on ulcers, while barley helps them. I doubt he'd eat several loaves of rye."

The presidential doctor fired up a protest. "Dr. House, ergot poisoning causes convulsions, CNS symptoms. I've even read that as a proposed cause behind the Salem witch trial cases. The symptoms don't match."

"Hint for future diagnosing: Never stop reading at chapter one. Keep going through the whole book. There are _two_ varieties of ergot, completely separate symptom sets. The more common one leads to the Salem freak-out. The less common one causes peripheral gangrene."

The President looked at his wife. "You said you got that from the hotel!"

She looked definitely guilty now, and her eyes shot to the doctor. House spoke up. "Confession time. Maybe her secret wasn't irrelevant after all; I _know_ yours was irrelevant, except for blinding you to remembering other things while you worried about discovery. Let me guess, Madame President. You managed to slip away one day with the doctor, probably actually to talk that time, maybe even when you were breaking it off. In wandering around while talking, you found a local street market, had a sample of homemade bread and liked it, so you bought a loaf and brought it back. When your husband tried some, it actually helped him, and you didn't want to say where you'd bought it, or rather, with whom. Is this anywhere close?"

A moment, and then she nodded. "_He_ insisted on getting away from all the political atmosphere to talk things over; I wanted to just end it then. We went to a corner of the city where nobody was likely to know or interrupt us. I did take my guard along to trail us. The man at the market had no idea who I was, but he knew we were tourists. He talked about how carefully this was made, old family recipe, and it had an interesting taste to it. But I did have a piece myself, Dr. House, with no problems at all. I swear, I thought it was fine."

"And you went back for more?" House suggested.

"Yes. When it helped Steve, I went back the next day and bought his entire batch of that flavor. Several loaves. Steve ate all of it over the next week." She turned to her husband, tears in her eyes now. "I'm so sorry, Steve. I had no idea. But Dr. House can _do_ something, right? Now that you know what's wrong? You can get the right antibiotic?"

The thrill of diagnostic victory deflated. House looked at the President's feet. "No. It's a fungus; antibiotics don't help. Unfortunately, our treatment has been correct all along, vasodilators, supportive care. If it was going to respond to anything short of amputation, it would have already."

"So there's still no other way," the President stated.

"No. I'm sorry." There was full sincerity in House's voice now.

The surgeon chimed in. "The recovery rate with ergot gangrene actually is quite good once the diseased tissue is separated. That stops the process. I'll make sure to get a good, clean line. And maybe the big toes will turn around; they have better blood supply than the little ones, so they have more chance of the vasodilators alone working. Without the poisoning from the others being kicked into the system, those might get better; they aren't fully gangrenous yet."

House's cell phone rang, and he pulled it out. It was Cuddy. "Hi. Just a second, okay?" He lowered the phone. "There's still no way around the surgery, but I promise we'll only take what we have to."

The First Lady abruptly switched from guilt to anger. "This is _your_ fault," she spat at the doctor. "If it hadn't been for you..."

House turned away, retreating from this looming cat fight. It would make no difference to the end result. He went back out into the hall and ducked into one of the other empty patient rooms. "Hi, Lisa. I'm okay."

"You worked it out before surgery?" she asked.

"Yes, for all the difference it makes. He's got ergot poisoning, fortunately the less-common peripheral and not central variety. He won't die, but he will lose his toes." House suddenly felt exhausted again. It was over. The three cases, Cuddy's issues, the whole horrible week. It was now truly over.

"Ergot? Don't people use that for migraines?"

"Yes. Also abortions. But the effective dose medically is _very_ small. It's a powerful little bug." He leaned against the wall.

"Are you okay, Greg?"

"Just tired. It's all over now. I want to watch the surgery, though, to make sure they don't cripple him anymore than they have to." A nurse and a tech walked by in the hall, heading for that room. "He's about to be taken to surgery. It shouldn't take too long, maybe an hour. Doesn't take much time to snip toes. Are you doing okay?"

"Yes. Why . . ." She stopped herself on the edge of suggesting that he get somebody else to watch the surgery instead. She understood his empathy there. He would be home before long anyway.

House heard the unspoken question. "If you need me back there sooner, I can wake up Kutner and Taub and get them to watch."

"No. I understand. Watch it yourself, Greg."

He felt a wave of gratitude. _She understood_. Something he wouldn't have believed possible once, something he treasured now, even if he would never have admitted it. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Call me once surgery is over, Greg."

"I will. Bye." He pocketed the phone and exited the room. The President's bed was just being wheeled out into the hall surrounded by hospital staff, his wife, and the ever-present Secret Service. The doctor was notably not present in the group. House saw the fear in the man's eyes as he went by but also resolve. House still didn't like him or any politician, but he stood almost at attention as the entourage passed him, heading for surgery.

(H/C)

An hour later, House exited the elevator at the lobby. Surgery had gone well. He had just called Kutner and Taub, waking them up and sending them to the lab to verify ergot but also telling them not to bother calling him with the confirmation. He knew he was right. The only responsibility he had left from this week was to go home. His car and the motorcycle were both out there in the handicapped spots, as his car had been left here last night. He thought about riding the motorcycle home, the freedom of the air in his face, the feeling of uncrippled power - and then he thought of Cuddy, took an assessment of his tiredness and the current circle of hell of his leg, and decided to take the car instead.

He was halfway across the lobby when Melissa and a seeming gaggle of children spilled through the front door of PPTH. There were only three, but they seemed more, all three caught up in the delirious release of tension with still-fading echoes of anxiety around the edges. House could relate. Cathy spotted him and charged away from her mother to meet him, rocking his balance in the force of her greeting. "Dr. House! Thank you. Thank you _so _much." She buried herself against him, and he wrapped his arms around her, his grip giving added reassurance that it was all okay now. Those PPTH staff who happened to be in the lobby stared at House hugging the child. Cathy finally released him as the others caught up to her. "Brian, Courtney, this is Dr. House," she introduced. "He's the best doctor in the whole world."


	47. Chapter 47

A/N: Second chapter for today because work has been on life support, and you can only play so much Free Cell while waiting before losing interest. I've always liked this chapter in this story, too. Not quite as much as my favorite three scenes, but this one does reveal some things about where House and Cuddy stand and where they will need to go from here. Also more Jensen, who gets pushed into quite a balancing act in this chapter.

Happy New Year.

(H/C)

Cuddy stood just inside the door of the bedroom with guilty eyes and furrowed forehead, watching House.

It was now Sunday afternoon. He had basically slept from midday Saturday when he got home until now, which of itself wouldn't surprise her. He often collapsed like this to recharge after totally depleting himself on a case, and this week had certainly qualified on caseload. Even the girls were familiar with this intermittent occurrence by now and tried their best to keep quiet for him. What worried Cuddy more was that his sleep wasn't completely sound. He wasn't back to having severe nightmares every two hours - although he had had one last night - but watching him, it was clear that he had fairly regular unpleasant dreams. It was also apparent that he had lost weight this week. Unguarded in sleep, with his shields down, the impact of everything on him was obvious. Cuddy shook her head, annoyed again with herself. All week, she had thought it was just the three cases, and that alone would have been a significant strain. But she herself had made it infinitely worse.

The girls were already relaxing much more around her. Their innocent worldview would accept "I had a bad week," especially as she was much more careful to keep a rein on herself around them now. She had promised House that she would wake him up if she got too tense dealing with them, but she hadn't needed to; just knowing that she could helped. She was unable to go finish the garage during the girls' nap, though. The project still lacked an hour or so, having been abandoned when he got home yesterday, but instead, she kept finding herself standing watching him, sometimes checking on the girls, too, but always switching back to watching him sleep. She hated the story she read in his face, yet forced herself to digest each page. To House, this week had all been a hauntingly familiar road, and even if she hadn't gone all the way down it, his memories and conditioned responses from his past had been reawakened.

He shifted slightly, murmuring some vague, unintelligible protest and then immediately clamping down on it into tense silence. Belle, curled next to him and watching Cuddy intently, looked over at him and snuggled in a bit more. Cuddy walked to the side of the bed, Belle's golden eyes immediately back on her, though she didn't run. The cat wasn't relaxing as quickly as the girls. Cuddy sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to run a comforting hand along his hair. "Greg," she soothed. "Easy." There was just a few seconds' delay in sleep where he froze at the touch, tightened up minutely, then after a pause relaxed into her touch and settled. Cuddy closed her eyes briefly but had to open them again just to watch him. As hard as it was to watch him, it was harder to look away.

She couldn't believe what she had done to her family. She was still feeling nervous, the constant worry about their safety still there, but the denial at least was gone. She was able to see her actions and mood moment by moment more clearly now, which helped her to control them without spilling over emotionally on those around her, but she knew she still had a lot of work to do. Stopping at "better" in only one area wasn't enough. Anything less than putting the whole on the table risked the leftovers still harming her family in the future, and she couldn't risk that. No, she would have to get help, admitting everything and letting a professional work through it with her. She was committed to therapy herself; she had no choice. Looking at House now, looking at the girls yesterday morning when they had first awakened, she had no choice at all. The idea still worried her, though, walking in and talking to somebody else openly about how totally she had failed, what a mess she had made of this week. She knew there would be no outright judgment, not from a professional, but the failure remained.

House had settled down again for the moment. Cuddy had grabbed a few naps herself this weekend, but she hadn't been nearly as far behind as he had. She had slept this week as long as he was here, and he had clearly made efforts to be here for her, even with the cases. She pulled out Jensen's post-it note and looked at it, then stood up with a sigh. Right now, while the girls were down for their afternoon nap, was a great opportunity to go ahead and call. She retreated to the door, not wanting to disturb him but still wanting to see him. Even asleep, he gave her strength, and his obvious signs of stress gave her added motivation. She had to do this for her family. Quickly, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number.

She had expected an answering service, but the phone was answered personally. "Hello?"

Cuddy took a deep breath. "Is this Dr. Patterson?"

"Yes, this is Ruth Patterson." The woman sounded about her age, warm yet professional.

"This is Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House. I . . ." She looked back to House. "I'd like to make an appointment."

"I've been expecting your call, Dr. Cuddy-House. Dr. Jensen called me yesterday."

Cuddy saw twin flares of resentment and worry launch and go off in starbursts overhead. "What did he tell you?"

"Oh, he didn't go into details. Don't worry; he respects confidentiality, even if you aren't actually his patient. He just said that he'd given you my private number, that you'd probably be calling, and that he'd appreciate it if I worked you in promptly even if it stretched the schedule at first. I could even do today if you want; I didn't have much going on this afternoon." There was a brief pause. "I did see the news last week. Is this related to what happened to you Tuesday night?"

"Yes," Cuddy admitted. "But this weekend won't work. I wish it would, but my husband has had an awful week. Which is mostly my fault, but he's been working himself to death, too. He's a doctor. He's been asleep most of the weekend, and he needs this to recover. I need to keep an eye on him, and besides, I wanted him to go with me to the first appointment. But I'd hate to wake him up right now."

"I understand. I've heard a lot about your husband; he sounds like a truly remarkable man."

Cuddy smiled. "He is, believe me. Do you have any time tomorrow?"

"I can add you in on the end of the day. 5:00? I'm sorry I can't do it sooner, but tomorrow was completely booked. We can find a more convenient slot for you regularly, but that would be soonest."

"That would be fine." They could call the sitter if Marina couldn't stay late. Marina. Cuddy felt a new sinking in her stomach. Marina knew, of course, and had called House to complain. Kutner knew. Foreman knew. Probably a good percentage of the hospital staff had noticed her problems to some extent this last week. She closed her eyes again, wondering how she was ever going to face them all Monday. "Where is your office?"

Dr. Patterson gave directions to an office building in Trenton, and Cuddy thanked her and hung up. She obsessively found a pen and jotted down the appointment on Jensen's note, though she couldn't possibly forget it. She watched House for a few more minutes, then ducked over for a look at the girls - still sleeping soundly. She returned to the bedroom just in time to see him fall into another not-quite-nightmare. It was brief, at least. He was responding to her touch - after subconsciously thinking about it first - and she seemed to be able to bring him out of the dreams.

Once he had settled down again, she swallowed what little remained of her pride, which wasn't much just now, retreated to the door, and took the cell phone back out, calling Jensen. She wasn't sure exactly how much he knew from this last week, but he clearly knew the basic outline. She was glad House had had _somebody_ on his side through everything, at least. Still, her husband obviously needed an appointment himself tomorrow.

The psychiatrist answered quickly, and she could hear the hum of activity in the background and effortlessly identified one of the waiting rooms at PPTH. "Hello. Just a minute." She heard his quick excuses, and then he retreated to some private corner. The background noise faded to the intermittent page.

"Do you have a minute?" she asked. "I don't want to take you away from your brother if he needs you." She did actually, not specifically wanting to take him away from Mark, but she wanted to reach through the phone and rip him onto her side this moment to help fix things here. Only she didn't want to wake House up. That alone pushed him in her mind back to tomorrow as well.

"It's okay. The kids are going in one at a time to see him for a few minutes, but Melissa was out here with them in the waiting room, too. I can take a few minutes now. Later on, once they get Mark worn out and he needs a break, we're going out to dinner." Jensen sounded back to his amiable, unflappable self.

"How's Mark?"

"Doing better all the time. Still nowhere close to normal, but he's improving." The conversation stalled, and Jensen just left it there, leaving direction completely up to her without prompting on his part.

Cuddy looked at House again. "I just called Dr. Patterson and made an appointment. Thank you for the referral."

"You're welcome. She's quite good, Dr. Cuddy, and I think you'll match up very well with her."

"I didn't make an appointment until tomorrow afternoon, though. Greg has pretty much been asleep all weekend; I just wake him up now and then to feed him. But he doesn't need something else to do today. He isn't up to it."

"He'll be okay," Jensen reassured her. "I'm glad he's getting caught up on sleep this weekend, though. He really did push himself way too far last week."

"You mean I did," Cuddy stated flatly.

"You weren't the only thing doing so, and he did have choices himself that he didn't take. I'm grateful for Mark's sake, but he should have considered himself more than he did."

Exactly. Cuddy sighed. "I'm worried about him," she admitted. She was grateful suddenly that Jensen was letting her completely steer this conversation, not pushing her on her own issues. She never could have had an uninhibited conversation about herself with him. He belonged to House, and she would be afraid of doing anything to potentially disrupt that relationship. "He is sleeping this weekend, but he's not sleeping _right_. He obviously keeps having dreams, not his nightmares but not good dreams, either. Over and over again, I'd say about two times an hour average. I haven't seen anything quite like this from him before. I'm not sure he's even aware of them when he wakes up, but anybody watching him could tell. He's about as restless as he ever gets; you know he won't let himself react too much physically in dreams. And there was a bad nightmare last night. He wouldn't go into details, just said it was about John. And all this week, he never stood up for himself. Not once. Even now, he acts like everything I did was just to the girls, when I actually did a lot more to him. I'm afraid he's not really letting himself admit it. And he _should_ have hit the limit sooner than he did. He shouldn't just take things like that, not even from me." This all had tumbled out like a verbal waterfall, but she finally had to stop for air.

"No, he shouldn't," Jensen agreed after he was sure she had run down. Cuddy sounded on the edge of a manic guilt fit, but he was glad she had decided to talk to somebody instead of internalizing and denying her fears again. He was glad to stand in the gap at the moment if she would let him, but he knew better than to say anything directly about her problems. She would shut down on him immediately. The only acceptable topic was House, who definitely did have some things to be dealt with himself. "I'll talk to him, but he does need to recover physically some first. He will be okay, Dr. Cuddy. It will take a little time, but he will be okay." He hoped that the unspoken postscript that she would, too, was heard.

Cuddy felt somewhat reassured by his words but still worried. "Then there was his mother last night," she continued, her speech less pressured now.

"What about her?" Jensen's tone sharpened up, a defensive edge appearing under it momentarily before retreating again. He didn't sound nearly as calm and reassuring there. Cuddy had to smile briefly even through the anxiety. House truly had no idea of how much the people around him cared about him.

"I'm not sure. She usually calls every Saturday night. I was surprised she hadn't called already this week after the news Tuesday, but Greg said later she had and he told her I was safe and to just call Saturday and not pester him all week, that he was busy with the President's case. When she called last night, though, we'd just finished eating. He took it back to the bedroom, which he doesn't usually do anymore. I thought he wanted to talk about me." She sighed again.

"With her, I doubt it," Jensen noted.

"Maybe. But I don't think now that was the main thing they ended up talking about. Something else came up in that conversation. They talked a little while, and after he came out, I could tell something was really bothering him, and it still is today. Something new, something that matters. But when I asked him, he shut down on me." She shook her head in self-annoyance. "I can't really complain about him not wanting to talk to me after this last week, but I just feel like he needs to talk to _somebody_. He didn't need a new problem with Blythe on top of everything else."

"I'll try to do a little fishing," Jensen said. "It is his choice, though. If he doesn't want to talk about that, I can't force him."

"I know. I just wanted you to be aware of it, and he's used to talking to you by now. He might tell you if you nudge him a little bit. The _last_ thing he needed right now was to have his mother go off on him again, not when I already ripped him to pieces this week myself."

Jensen tried changing the subject before she could get too wound up again. "Has he heard from your own parents this week? He didn't mention it."

"No, they're safely out of the way," she said with such heartfelt gratitude that she could almost hear the psychiatrist's smile on the other end of the line. "They're on vacation. Out on a cruise getting 'away from it all,' or their version of. They won it in a contest, and I'm sure Dad is busy evaluating the company as a stock possibility and Mom is grading the service. They'll have plenty to say once they find out, but at least they weren't calling constantly this week. He sure didn't need that. Blythe will actually take a number at this point with him better than my mother will."

House shifted again, and Cuddy walked across the bedroom, once again touching him soothingly. Once again, he hesitated for about two seconds of tense stillness before responding to her and calming down. "I can't believe what I've done to him this week," she said, returning to scaling the mountain of her own fault. She dropped her voice very low now as she was directly next to him, but he didn't wake up, sound asleep at least for the moment under her hand. "He's -" She trailed off. Belle was watching her steadily, her eyes uncomfortably focused, and it was nearly impossible to actually get this part out in front of the feline jury. Cuddy swallowed the lump in her throat and continued.

"Whenever I touch him, he freezes up for a few seconds before he relaxes. Even in sleep. _Especially _in sleep." Once they had talked yesterday morning, it wasn't nearly this pointed while he was awake, though he was still somewhat tense. In sleep, he seemed to actually be waiting for a physical blow, judging whether her hands were going to be friendly this time or otherwise. "I try to reassure him during the dreams, and it just makes it worse for the first few seconds. It's like he's expecting me to hit him. I swear, I never...not physically, anyway. I guess there's not really much difference, is there?" The guilt waves crashed over her again. "I'm like -"

Jensen's voice sliced firmly across that sentence, not letting her finish. "But he _does_ relax after those first seconds, doesn't he? If they aren't full nightmares, can you calm him down without having to wake him up?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"He's reacting to the past and his memories, not only to you. When his memories are all stirred up but he's asleep, he probably wonders at first if it's John, who I'm sure is the main character in his dreams. I really doubt you've knocked John out of starring role in his sleep, Dr. Cuddy, and if he really thought subconsciously you were just as bad, you could never soothe him out of a dream. I saw him yesterday morning, and he seemed very much relieved and positive about you." All that was true, although Jensen definitely shared Cuddy's suspicion that House wasn't letting himself feel everything here. He hadn't totally believed that attitude even yesterday; a few of House's reactions had spoken a lot louder than his words. But Cuddy needed reassurance right now, not further guilt.

She looked at her husband. She knew John was still not forgotten, though House had made tremendous progress, but he didn't usually confuse the two of them this easily or constantly in sleep, if that was what he was doing. "You only saw him briefly, though. He said he just talked to you for a minute and got the referral but didn't really get into details." Jensen was observant, but just in a minute, he might not have gotten a full reading.

"I saw him longer than just a minute. Not a session," Jensen clarified. "It's true that we barely talked yesterday, at least about serious subjects, but I bought him brunch instead."

That had to have been Jensen's idea; House in case crisis would never have suggested it. Cuddy was impressed that the psychiatrist had gotten him to agree to that much of a time-out from his diagnosis. She ran a gentle hand along House's slightly too-prominent ribs. "Did he eat it?"

"Yes, he did. I was trying to keep the conversation casual while he was eating, and he finished a pretty good plateful."

Jensen had probably done better at that than she had lately; she was sure she'd forgotten that rule among other things at least a few times. But she was glad House had gotten another good meal in him yesterday. No matter the source, all calories at the moment would help. "Thank you. But you thought he was feeling better about us?"

"Definitely," he assured her firmly. "I had a good chance to observe him for a while, even if we weren't having a session. You're right that there was some damage done this week, but now that he knows you are getting help, he'll steadily relax more around you. He'll be okay," Jensen repeated, a recurring theme in this conversation but one she needed to hear over and over just now. It was also his honest assessment, with a little work to be done. "He's very resilient, and you two both have love on your side."

"But it's just a month now until the trial," she reminded him. "After this week, he's nowhere close to being in shape to go through that." What if on top of everything else she had sabotaged the case against Patrick Chandler?

"I know. I'll admit it was bad timing, but fortunately, we still have a little time. He doesn't have to testify this weekend. You'll get through this together, Dr. Cuddy, and you haven't ruined things with him. It didn't get that far. You will both be okay with time and a little help."

"Right," she said, with less conviction than he would have liked but not without hope, either. At least she sounded calmer than she had at first. Abby woke up at that moment across the hall and called her, followed by a sleepy, "Shut up" from Rachel. Cuddy smiled. "I've got to go; the girls are waking up. Just please try to talk to him. Don't let him bury things. And Blythe _is _bothering him."

"I'll talk to him," Jensen promised.

"Thank you," she said. She hung up, then gave House a final soft stroke down the side of his head. He was deeply asleep, quiet for the moment. "Rest, my love," she pleaded with him, then stood up, going over to the girls, smiling at their welcoming faces. She still felt that she didn't deserve it, but she was glad to see them all the same.


	48. Chapter 48

Two hours later, Cuddy gently opened the bedroom door. Rachel and Abby came up on either side of her on tiptoe, peering in at their father while trying to be quiet. House was still asleep on the bed, but the covers were wrinkled just slightly rather than smooth like she had left them, and Belle was in a different position. Cuddy sighed softly, she thought, but Abby looked up quickly at her. "Mama okay?"

She forced a reassuring smile, reminding herself how observant this one was. Abby was so quiet you could easily overlook that. "I'm fine."

Rachel had tiptoed a few steps farther into the room, getting closer to her father. "Shhhh," Abby reminded her.

"Shut up," Rachel replied, though at a reduced volume.

Cuddy shook her head in fond exasperation. "Rachel, don't tell your sister to shut up. It's not polite. Apologize to her."

Rachel turned around, taking on her stubborn look. Abby straightened up, smiling. "Shhh. Dada sleep." Rachel had obviously been about to toss off a less-than-soft response to her sister. Abby knew that full well and was taking advantage of it with a purely Housian twist, recognizing the situation and using it to her purposes. Cuddy rolled her eyes. What were these two going to be like in a few years?

"Abby, be quiet. Rachel, apologize to your sister." Rachel looked at Abby, standing there with a cherubic smile on her face and knowing she couldn't truly be retaliated against verbally at the moment. Rachel gave an exaggerated sigh.

"I 'pologize, Abby. No shut up." The words carried nothing along with them but the syllables, but she did say it.

Cuddy fought the urge to demand an improvement. They didn't have time to get into it, and she still didn't quite trust herself. "Thank you. Now then, I need to wake up your father." House shifted his head minutely; he was falling into another dream. She stepped forward, then paused after only a step, studying Rachel, who was closer to the bed. "Why don't you wake him up instead, Rachel?"

Rachel characteristically needed no second invitation. She started to scramble onto the bed, and Cuddy came on enough to give her a boost, then backed off to watch with a low admonition to "remember to be careful of his leg." Rachel seized House's arm with both hands - and House tightened up instantly, not pulling away far from the hands but freezing at first as his subconscious reacted. Cuddy, watching closely, could tell no difference from his reaction to her. If anything, it took House longer to relax to the first touch with Rachel. Maybe Jensen was right and he was just that much on edge in general with old memories right now instead of expecting her to attack him. She wasn't sure if that should make her feel better or worse. After all, whose fault was it if he was on edge in general? Rachel began shaking him vigorously, and Belle hissed, stood up with a disgruntled stretch, and hopped off the bed. House retreated slightly into the pillows, away from the hands, then froze again, his muscles tensing up more.

Cuddy went to his side immediately, calling an end to her impromptu test. He didn't need to fall into a full-fledged nightmare, and Rachel certainly was reminding his subconscious of John right now with her demanding hands and complete lack of subtlety. Cuddy put her hand along his cheek. "Greg?" After a few seconds, he relaxed a little. "Greg! Come up, time to wake up."

Rachel was continuing her agitation of his arm and added some vocal cheerleading. "Up, Dada! Wake up!"

"Rachel, take it easy. Come on, Greg." She added a small amount of pressure herself, and he stirred again, pulling away across the bed to try to escape both her hands and Rachel's. She smiled. He was shifting out of dreams now into the climb to consciousness. In dreams, he never let himself retreat from a touch beyond an initial cringe; the consequences of that had been too heavily pounded into him. "Greg!"

Rachel secured a new grip and resumed shaking him. "Up, Dada!"

House opened his eyes and looked at his elder daughter. "Why?" he asked.

"Time to eat," Cuddy supplied.

He shook his head and let his eyes fall shut again. "I already ate today."

"Too bad. Get up, Greg."

"Get up!" Rachel seconded. He started snoring, a loud stage snore, and Rachel dissolved into giggles, as did Abby.

"We'll be ready to eat in about 15 minutes," Cuddy stated firmly across the buzz saw. She had allowed him time to gradually get up and stretch his leg into compliance. "How are you feeling?"

His eyes opened again, resigning themselves to the position for the time being. "Better." That obviously wasn't a lie, and he _did_ look better, more alert and clearer eyed every time. Cuddy wished that he were truly sleeping soundly this weekend, but the subconscious dreams did at least seem to be allowing him some sort of rest. House sat up, careful not to jar his leg, and leaned against the headboard, starting subtle range of motion exercises with his right foot under the covers. "What have my girls been doing today?"

"Played in the yard!" Rachel replied. "Birds." She shook her head, annoyed suddenly. "Birds won't stay."

House grinned. "You tried to catch them?" She nodded. "Let me guess, by running up to them."

"Uh huh. Birds fly away. An' watched TV. Mama not mad at us now."

Cuddy cringed, her guilt surging back in and completely sweeping away the thought of how cute her daughter had been trying with all the subtlety of an elephant to sneak up on and catch those birds. "I wasn't mad at you, Rachel. I just had a bad week. It was never about you."

House gave her an encouraging smile. "Well, last week is officially _over_. That's why they call this the week_end_." He looked at his other daughter, standing by the bed, quieter as always. "Come here, Abby." She tried and didn't even get as far as Rachel did in the climb. Cuddy picked her up and put her on the bed, and House hugged her, with Rachel climbing up on his other side. Cuddy held a bit of distance watching the scene, and House gave her a pointed look. "Get over here, Lisa." She relaxed a little and sat down on the edge of the bed, joining her family in the group hug.

She was the first to pull away. "Dinner. I need to go check on the food."

"I go." Rachel dropped off the bed and raced down the hall, and Cuddy smiled.

"I'd better go supervise. _Don't touch the stove, Rachel!_" she called. "I wish we could bottle that energy at times."

"It would be handy on a case," House agreed. He carefully moved Abby over. "Go on, girls. I'll be there in a minute." Cuddy saw the flash of tension across his face. He didn't want to get up while she was watching. That wasn't new, but it seemed especially pointed at the moment. She wondered again just how much damage she had done this week. More than she realized even now, she was afraid. More than he was letting himself admit, at least while awake.

"Did you have a good nap, Greg?" she asked abruptly.

He tilted his head, wondering at the question. "Yes, I did. I'm okay, Lisa. Just worn out from the week and need to catch up on sleep, which I _am_ doing, you might have noted."

His eyes were direct but not too direct. He really did think he had had a good nap; the dreams were under the surface. Most of them. Last night's nightmare had been a very bad one. "I've got to check the stove," she repeated. She set Abby on the floor and left quickly.

Abby stood by the bed, looking from Cuddy's retreat to House, her small head tilted. "Awake now, Dada?" she asked.

"Yes, I'll stay awake for a little while now. Maybe we can watch a movie together after we eat." Abby nodded happily. He hesitated, not wanting to throw the blanket back and make that laborious shift of moving his leg out of bed with his hands while his daughter was watching him. "Go on, Abby. I'll be there in a minute."

She left obediently, and House watched her stride, lacking the vim and vigor of Rachel's gallop but still even. Two good legs. She would only get stronger, unlike himself. With a sigh, he moved over and began the extended process of getting up.

(H/C)

Wilson looked around the kitchen, critically analyzing the meal in progress. Another half hour, perhaps. He was making one of Sandra's favorites, not just to score a few points but also to watch her enjoy it. She had never had the gift of cooking herself, something that she admitted with characteristic straightforwardness.

Being home felt - odd, incomplete. He missed something that he realized now he had still never fully appreciated when he had it. Both of them were still thinking of Daniel, back in the NICU, but there was also the gap between them. She was not pretending that it didn't exist, yet she hadn't asked him to leave. House had said he still had a chance here. Even more, _Sandra_ had indicated by her own actions and statements that he still had a chance here. But Wilson knew absolutely that he was down to his final one with her, and that scared him. She had made it clear that while she wanted him, she would not accept partial commitment, and for the first time, he didn't believe that she should. Thinking of her and his son, he knew they deserved that. He _had_ to succeed here, not just for himself but for them.

He walked into the hallway, listening at the bedroom door. She was taking a nap, still feeling the effects of surgery, and he heard not a sound from the room. Retreating to the kitchen, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

Jensen answered, sounding much more like himself than he had earlier this week in the middle of Mark's crisis. "Hello, James. Just a minute, and I'll take this somewhere." Wilson heard his quick apology, then footsteps. "How are you doing?"

"How's Mark?" Wilson asked first off, remembering guiltily how he had completely forgotten about Jensen's brother at first when he met him Thursday outside the cafeteria.

"He's improving steadily now. His heart is getting better, still with the pacemaker, but it's not having to step in as much. Dr. Taub was just in to check on him, and he thinks they'll move him out of ICU in the morning."

"Good."

"I thought about calling you last night after the kids had gotten to sleep, but I didn't want to disrupt Sandra's first night home. When I went by her room yesterday about noon, they said she had just been discharged. How are things?"

"I'm not sure." Wilson sighed, looking at the enormity of the mountain in front of him. "I think I still have a chance here - but I think it's the last one."

"You're probably right, at least for now. With her, anyway. She would never shut you out of Daniel's life."

"I know, but that's not what I want. I want _us_, as a family." He heard the resounding sympathy - _empathy _- on the other end of the call. Jensen himself had lost his wife and child, albeit temporarily, through his own errors.

"That can still happen, James," the psychiatrist assured him. "It's not too late to change."

"I wondered if - look, I know you've had a hell of a week, too. But we missed session Wednesday. Could we talk sometime now that things are settling down?"

"Of course, James. Not right now; my family is here, and I was spending the evening with them. I can't give you more than a few minutes now. But they'll be leaving first thing in the morning after visiting Mark again. Melissa's taking the three kids back to Middletown."

"Right now wouldn't work that well anyway. I'm cooking dinner while Sandra's taking a nap, and I haven't got that long. You're not going back to Middletown yourself?"

"Not just yet. Mark is . . . he's not the best patient in the world, and as he feels better, he wants to do too much. Pam still needs backup until he's discharged. Once he gets home, the kids can help police things, but even though he _is_ getting better now, he's not feeling as well yet as he's pretending to."

Wilson laughed, picturing it. "I know the type. Hard to be the one who's sick when you're used to doing everything."

"Exactly. But I'm sure we can find some time during the day tomorrow."

Wilson ran through his patient schedule in his mind. His own patients had had short shrift this last week, and he needed to get back into full harness himself. But there were two unfilled appointment gaps. "What about first thing in the morning? I don't have an appointment until 9:30." That quickly, he lost Jensen's attention. He felt the other man's thoughts leave and followed their flight unerringly. "What's wrong? Was House already scheduled then?"

"No, he's not scheduled." Jensen hesitated and flinched as he heard himself the "yet" hovering unspoken. He had planned to track House down first thing tomorrow to offer him the chance to talk, assuming that House's own schedule permitted it then.

"But he gets first call, of course." Wilson leaped to fill in the gap before Jensen could go on. "Just in case he might want to talk to you, even though he hasn't requested it yet. I'm amazed anybody else ever gets a firm appointment with you without running it by him first." He couldn't help feeling the old jealousy turn over and growl within him, and his tone had an edge on it.

Jensen immediately yielded. "No, you're right. That's not being fair of me. I apologize. 8:30 would work fine for me; if Dr. House wants to talk, I'll tell him that time is taken."

Wilson paused on the edge of victory, suddenly wondering. While he had no doubt that House was Jensen's favorite patient, Jensen hardly slacked off with his others. It really _was_ odd for Jensen to hesitate so obviously on making an appointment, especially when he had just said a minute ago in general that he would make one. "Was there some specific reason you wanted to track House down as soon as you could rather than just any time tomorrow?"

A long silence. "Ye-es," Jensen said finally, drawing the word out to two syllables. "But I can't tell you what that is."

"He told us yesterday morning Cuddy had agreed to start therapy, so things should be on the wrapup with him, too. He sounded on top of the world last time I talked to him." Jensen said nothing, but Wilson felt concern enter the ring to wrestle with jealousy in his own mind. The other man really was bothered by something here, and he was the only person Wilson had ever met who approached House's perceptiveness, at least in his own field.

The oncologist sighed. "If you really think House might need to talk to you, acutely somehow and not just general leftovers from last week, I can deal with that. Nothing's going to change with me between then and a few hours later. I think I'm in for a long grind trying to fix things here." Part of him still didn't like bowing out, but Jensen obviously had more information than he did. Still, House had seemed upbeat yesterday morning, and Cuddy was cooperating now. What else could be wrong? He considered calling House's cell, but given that the news last night had said the President had been diagnosed, House was probably crashed at home this weekend sleeping, and Wilson had no desire to wind up talking to Cuddy just yet. He made a mental note to be sure to check on House himself tomorrow.

"Thank you, James." Jensen sounded relieved and grateful, and that worried Wilson even more. This wasn't plain favoritism. "I'm sorry; I know that's not really being fair to you. But I did have an acute reason why I wanted to check with him first thing in the morning, assuming he's not busy then at work and assuming he wants to talk."

"Is he okay?" Wilson asked. "I mean, besides Cuddy putting him through the wringer. But there's nothing new with him?" Jensen was silent. Concern pinned jealousy to the mat. "Go talk to him first. If he wants to, that is. I have another appointment gap in the afternoon at 2:00 anyway."

"Thank you," Jensen repeated. "I can't tell you why, but I do appreciate it, and I do think it's needed."

"Sorry I snapped at you," Wilson admitted, feeling guilty now along with his new concern.

"It's okay. I probably deserved some of it." The ranking of urgency for tomorrow really had been purely a professional one, based on his own observations yesterday, Cuddy's call, and a sounding taken on Wilson's status in this call before that topic came up. Still, Jensen made a firm mental note to watch himself with the patients. Yes, House meant so much more than a patient by now, a relationship he thoroughly enjoyed for itself and didn't want to distance as long as it still worked professionally for House. Even so, he couldn't let that impact the others and definitely shouldn't let them deduce that fact from his words. Anybody resents a favorite. "I do want to talk to you, as well," he assured Wilson. "We will find some time tomorrow. I promise."

"Just let me know, 8:30 or 2:00, okay? I will have my cell phone with me. And even turned on." Wilson didn't think he would ever be able to walk out a door again without paranoid checking of that. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Sandra, wearing sweats and a celebratory prepregnancy T-shirt, her brunette waves rumpled from her nap, the mark of her pillow still on her cheek. She looked in that moment more beautiful to him than any primped date he had ever been out with, and he smiled at her, startling her with the force of it.

"I'll let you know," Jensen said. "Thank you again for understanding."

"I've got to go; Sandra just woke up. See you tomorrow." He hit end and turned to stir dinner.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"Jensen. I was trying to set up a session tomorrow at the hospital sometime."

"Good." She stepped forward, still stiffly aware of her stitches. "That smells wonderful, James."

"Tastes even better," he said, but he felt the warm glow of doing something spread through him, not just for him this time but for her. He opened the cabinet and started taking down plates.

(H/C)

To Cuddy's delight, House was truly hungry at the meal. She carefully kept the conversation on inconsequential subjects, starting out with the girls and Rachel chasing birds that afternoon, but he actually seemed to eat better tonight when talking about hospital gossip rather than the family. Once she would have resented and derided that topic as a waste of time and none of his business besides, but she had slowly learned the last few years that House's observations on various staff members actually had practical applications. He was able to spot things developing that potentially affected the hospital. She now listened to him.

After they had finished, he pushed back and ambled to the piano. He still looked tired, but he wasn't heading straight back to bed this time. Rachel saw his destination and beat him there. "We play, Dada? Lesson?"

His shoulders drooped a little, and Cuddy came to his rescue. Clearly, he didn't have the energy yet to deal with another two piano lessons with the attached reminder that they had a real developing problem here between the girls that could lead to resentment if they didn't watch it. "Rachel, he's still too tired to do that tonight. We'll get back to piano lessons in a few days." House gave her a grateful look, but he diverted to the couch instead, changing his first course.

"You, Dada?" Abby requested. He looked from her to Rachel. He had been drawn magnetically toward the music in the first place, but he didn't want to set his older daughter off.

Cuddy picked up Rachel. "That's a great idea, Greg. Wouldn't you like to have him play for awhile, Rachel?" Rachel nodded vigorously. "Go on, Greg. Forget the lessons; just play for us."

House looked dubious at first, but Rachel threw in her vote a second time, since the first had apparently not been counted. "Play, Dada! NOW!"

House chuckled and started to pry himself back out of the couch cushions, relaxing a little. "What's the magic word, Rachel?" Cuddy reminded her.

"Pease," Abby provided.

"Shut . . ." Rachel stopped herself halfway as House started to sit back down on the couch. Snapping at her sister would only waste time and delay the concert more. "Please play, Dada?"

He smiled at her. "With pleasure." He stood back up and went to the piano, giving it an affectionate caress as he sat down. Cuddy moved over to the couch herself, still holding Rachel, and Abby scrambled up with some help to join her. "Any requests?" he asked his family. "Name a song."

Rachel was first, of course. "Disney!"

Abby shook her head slightly. "No . . ."

"Yes! Disney!"

"You like Disney, Abby," Cuddy reminded her.

House grinned. "I think she was objecting to the terminology. That's not one song; it's a whole group. Rachel's willing to take it as one lump classification; Abby thinks of the individual songs." His grin faded abruptly as he again remembered the issues between the daughters here. Already, Abby was appreciating music in a far more detailed way than Rachel did.

Cuddy spoke up quickly to distract him. "Okay, we _each_ will name one song. We'll take turns. Which Disney song, Rachel?"

Rachel looked annoyed at being limited, but she finally picked Be Our Guest from Beauty and the Beast. House gave it a rousing performance, the piano laughing and frisky beneath his fingers. After that, Abby wanted When You Wish Upon a Star. Softer, more lyrical that time, the piano sang to them. House finished it off and then looked at Cuddy. "Your turn, Lisa."

She immediately thought of Cuddy's Serenade, and then suddenly the guilt crashed back in, sweeping the request away unspoken. She didn't deserve to ask that after the week she had put him through. "Come on, Lisa. Pick a song," House urged.

She looked down. "Just whatever you feel like playing. I love all of it, Greg."

He looked at her for a moment, then started, and her head came up quickly. He was playing the Serenade anyway. His eyes were directly on hers, not the keys, and they spoke as loudly as the notes. The week hadn't ruined things, as Jensen had tried to tell her. His love was still there. She felt tears welling up, both of gratitude and guilt, but she couldn't help savoring every moment of the song. It reminded her of their wedding, walking down the aisle to him, heading toward the vows. For better or worse. Till death do us part. Nothing lesser.

House finished and switched into another song for the girls without waiting for a vote, clearly distracting them to give Cuddy a chance to compose herself before they noticed she was crying silently. Both of his daughters were captivated as usual by his music, and even Abby didn't look back right then. Left to his own soundtrack, House switched around, giving them a free concert of some jazz, some upbeat playfulness, some that he would have called sappy and sentimental had they been anything except music. Cuddy recovered and lost herself in his skill along with her daughters. Gradually, the music edged around to quiet and soothing, and the sleep overtook the girls before they noticed its approach.

House stopped, and the piano was silent. Cuddy looked down at the girls asleep across her. "Thank you, Greg. That was beautiful."

He stood up stiffly. "We'd better get them to bed." He walked a couple of laps of the piano before picking up Abby, though. He had been sitting on the bench for a while, and his leg was protesting. Cuddy watched him, thinking. His birthday was next Sunday. She had planned it out before everything fell apart this last week, of course, but her mind picked up the plans again now. She wanted so much to make this a special day for him, new memories, more reconditioning to help silence a few of the echoes of horrible birthdays in the past. She had two major presents for him, one of which she was sure of, one merely hopeful and tentative at the same time. She had tickets to a large monster truck rally in Philadelphia two weeks after that. The rally had been sold out for months. House hadn't even mentioned it, a sign of just how on edge he was about the approaching trial the week after. But Cuddy had bought tickets - _two_ tickets, the best seats there. And the second ticket wasn't for Wilson. Yes, she herself, Lisa Cuddy-House, was going to go to a monster truck rally and was even looking forward to it, enjoying his enjoyment. She knew he would love that.

The second present was the one on her mind now, however. He loved playing the piano so much, but it did bother his leg to sit on the bench for any length of time. She hesitated to change anything involving the piano, which after all he had had for years. He could have gotten something before if he wanted to. But after a lot of debate, she had had specially made a piano bench cover. It had a base of memory foam, the curves and seat actually designed by a physiatrist to be more comfortable for the disabled pianist, and the covering was rich black corduroy. It would match the ebony piano perfectly and not be glaringly obvious, but she hoped it would make playing more comfortable for him. Finally, it had, of course, the straps that made it removable. She would never dream of doing something touching his treasure that was irrevocable. She would give the gift, and he could choose himself whether to use the cushion full time, part time, or not at all; she had resolved already never to push him either way with it, simply provide the option. Watching his stride now, she hoped that he would allow himself the concession, but it was, ultimately, his choice.

House rounded the piano on his final lap and caught her in unmistakable physical analysis. He tightened up. "Got to get them to bed," he said curtly, picking up Abby.

Cuddy sighed. "Greg, I wasn't . . ." She trailed off. Hard to explain when the gift was a secret. "In another week, you'll understand better, okay? I wasn't thinking what you thought I was."

"In another week. Going to give me a healthy leg for my birthday? Must admit, _that _would be different from Dad, all right." He started back for the nursery.

Cuddy stood up herself with Rachel. Damn it. Just when the evening had been relaxing, too. She couldn't blame him, really. She remembered several quite-pointed comments on his physical status this week. Denial of her root concern had sharpened their points far more than she had intended, but he obviously still had the wounds. She wondered if she should give him the gift at all. Maybe she should save it for Christmas or some less charged point. Yet it _would_ help his comfort if he would accept it. She hated putting him through six more months without that available just because _she_ had screwed up.

House was tucking Abby in back in the nursery. She woke up Rachel long enough for a sleepy trip through the bathroom, then put her in her bed. "Greg," she said as he started to leave the nursery. "I'm sorry." He stopped at that, turning toward her and hesitating for a minute, then held out his arms. They came together again, relaxing and melting into each other. When they broke apart finally, they went to the master bedroom, not touching hands but still close, the invisible cords between them holding them side by side.

House went through the bathroom first, and Cuddy slowly started to get undressed. The thought suddenly struck her that they hadn't had sex since last Thursday night, but she wasn't sure she could yet. The impact of everything she had done to him was too resounding. He came out of the bathroom with a dramatic, "Your turn," and she walked in, still lost in thought. The Serenade. He still loved her, after everything. But he also was definitely on edge right now, so quick to take things the wrong way and demean himself, and that was her accomplishment.

She delayed in the bathroom, but when she finally came out and slipped into bed beside him, he was still awake, actually fighting to be still awake. Even though it was early for their bedtime, he wasn't yet fully recovered from the week, though gaining. He slid over, his arms going around her. She tightened up. "Greg, I . . . I'm not really in the mood tonight . . ."

"Shhh." He pulled her against him, caressing her gently, and she realized after a moment that it was _not_ sexual. He was simply trying to reassure her. She relaxed into his touch in spite of herself, listening to the silent statement in his hands, and to her surprise, she didn't stay awake much longer than he did.


	49. Chapter 49

Cuddy eyed her reflection in the mirror, then spun away viciously, still dissatisfied, and returned to the closet to fish through the outfits there. Four discards already lay on the bed.

House entered the bedroom to find her snarling at her wardrobe like a cornered dog. With a mixture of amusement, exasperation, and concern, he followed her into the closet and seized her shoulders, rubbing them. She pulled away in annoyance. "Not now, Greg. I haven't got time."

He hung on, working the knotted muscles beneath his hands. "You're going to give yourself a headache before you even get to the hospital if you don't relax a little." She tightened up even more at the words get to the hospital, and he sighed. "Lisa, it isn't the clothes. Nothing you wear is going to make you feel ready for work today."

She whirled to face him. "Like _you_ know anything about clothes. I am a _professional,_ and . . ."

He looked back at the discard pile on the bed and cut her off. "And all of those outfits have been deemed professional enough to wear to work in the past. It isn't about clothes, Lisa, and actually, I _do_ understand."

"How could you possibly. . ." She deflated suddenly as she remembered, guilt surging back in with the worry.

"Yeah, right. Remember Patrick? I had to walk the gauntlet back into that hospital, too, when every look was directed at me, when _everybody_ knew."

"That's different," she insisted. "Nobody was blaming you."

"Nobody's blaming you, either. You had a horrible experience that was beyond your control, and all of them will understand getting rattled about it. I'm sure anybody who noticed you were off last week immediately excused it already at the same time." She flinched, remembering how many people, including the board, had indeed credited her ordeal Tuesday night for her nervousness. She had annihilated them for it, too.

House continued, trying to derail her train of failures. "You know what got me through those doors and across the lobby, Lisa? You. You were right there beside me. And I'll be there for you going in today. It was only a few days, Lisa, and they'll understand. This isn't even new information like they got on me; they knew what was going on all along. They'll be glad to move on from it. Just be the usual Cuddy, and nobody will bring up last week. Allow yourself to be human for once and handle something with less than perfection; _all of us_ do." She still looked not entirely convinced, and he went on. "And also, allow me to pick out an outfit for today, because otherwise, you aren't going to get to work until noon, and then people really _will_ be talking."

She looked down at what she was wearing. It still didn't look right, but neither had anything else. "That one looks great," House said. "Okay, we have a winner; the polls are now officially closed. Let's go."

She turned back to the bathroom. "I need to fix my hair."

He caught her hand. "It isn't broken. Come on, Lisa, trust me. You look great."

Her expression changed slightly at the words trust me as she remembered again him cringing away from her touch in sleep. On the other hand, the last two nights, she had woken up both when the girls needed attention and at 5:00 alarm with him holding her hand in sleep, his fingers warm and reassuringly healthy as they clasped hers, his grip tight even though he was asleep himself. She had slept well, only waking up for the girls, and she thought that hand must be the reason. It had made her feel safe for the moment, even if it hadn't weighed out the obvious observation during her awake moments that he was still having dreams himself. "You'll go in with me?" she asked.

House fought the urge to roll his eyes. Patience, he reminded himself. Instead of tossing off the first comment that came to mind, which was that he hardly could have left her in his dust in the parking lot even if he'd wanted to, he simply confirmed, "Yes, I'll go in with you." He ushered her toward the bedroom door before she could change her mind. A final goodbye to the girls, a reminder to Marina that they would be late tonight, and finally they were off to PPTH.

They both took her car. House's motorcycle was still at PPTH, but he had a feeling he'd be with her all day today, certainly to Trenton and back this evening. He didn't suggest that he drive, thinking the control might help her, but she still looked tense to the breaking point, and all of his efforts at conversation during the trip fell flat. Finally, he just held her hand, and that much she accepted, even if it didn't seem to visibly help much. After parking in her administrative parking space, not much farther than his usual, they walked toward the hospital, though House couldn't help one sidelong glance to make sure the motorcycle was okay. Cuddy hesitated at the doors, taking a deep breath, and he squeezed her hand. "Come on, Lisa. You only have to do this once."

Slowly she walked forward, but her eyes were darting every direction as they entered the lobby. House vividly remembered his own walk into the hospital after Patrick had told everybody about his past, and he kept hold of her hand. Today, she didn't pull away once they were in the public area, which she usually did, trying to keep things professional at work. They stopped first at the reception desk in the middle of the lobby for any messages there, and Cuddy cringed inwardly as the woman looked up to greet them. It was the same fleeting expression she had seen with Abby and Rachel, that quick assessment of which version this was. "Good morning, Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House."

"Good morning," House and Cuddy replied in unison, perfectly pleasant, and actually getting a return greeting from House startled the receptionist out of her Cuddy watch. She stared at him. Cuddy fought back a laugh, the tension suddenly relaxing a little.

"Do we have any messages?" she prompted.

"Um, yes, let me see." The receptionist stopped staring at House and looked down at her paperwork. Finally finding the correct stacks, she handed the messages to each of them.

"Thank you," Cuddy replied.

"Yes, thank you," House replied. Miss Manners would have thoroughly approved of his silken tones.

"You're welcome." It was House, not Cuddy, who held her attention as they moved away.

House walked on with Cuddy toward her office, and she elbowed him gently in the ribs once they were out of earshot of the receptionist. "Behave yourself, Greg."

"All I said was good morning," he protested. "And thank you. People keep telling me those kind of things are polite." But he felt the pressure still of her hand on his, the silent understanding and gratitude.

They stopped outside her office to speak to her secretary, and once again there was the same reaction to Cuddy's eyes, a momentary tensing up at first, then settling down quickly as they ran over the agenda for the day, ending with, "And I'll be leaving the office early, 4:15, to get to another appointment. I won't be back afterward."

The secretary didn't dare ask for specifics on the other appointment, but she silently hoped. "I understand, Dr. Cuddy."

On into her office, and Cuddy turned to House once the door shut. When they parted a minute later, he gave her a reassuring smile. "See? They relax very quickly. They're perfectly willing to do business as usual."

"After they have this fleeting thought that they hope I'm not the boss from hell at the moment."

"They never thought you were from hell." He gave her a final kiss. "They aren't blaming you, Lisa, and they'll be perfectly glad to forget about last week and move on. Nobody will bring it up unless you do. I need to get upstairs, but call me when you need to."

"I will. And remember, we need to leave by 4:15 to make sure we get to Trenton on time with the traffic."

"Okay. See you then. Actually, I'm sure I'll see you before, but then, too." He gave her hand another squeeze, then left. Cuddy looked at the picture of her family on the wall, then sat down behind the desk and tried to immerse herself in the day's agenda in between now and the looming appointment at the end.

House went to see Mark first. He had been moved from ICU earlier this morning, and his new room was full of family, all of them enjoying visiting at the same time. House hesitated outside the room, but Cathy spotted him through the glass and dragged him on inside. "Good morning, Dr. House!"

"Good morning," he replied, and there was full sincerity behind it this time, not a sham distraction like with the receptionist. He pushed his way through the group to the bed, unable to help tensing up a little. He didn't like crowds, especially ones that were all trying to thank him.

"We were just about to leave," Melissa told him, picking up on his uneasiness. "Come on, kids. Mark needs to rest, and we need to get going to Philadelphia."

House had been examining Mark's hands - the swelling in the joints as well as the tenderness now almost gone - but he looked up at that. "What are you going to Phily for? Middletown is the other direction."

"We're going to the zoo," Cathy announced. "Then home, but we get the zoo first."

"The hospital isn't enough of a zoo for you?"

She laughed. "You don't have wild animals here."

"You'd be surprised." He looked back at Mark. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Mark admitted. "Thanks for everything." He looked much better, although also tired already today. This much family at once was pushing his convalescent resources of strength.

"Bet you won't still be thanking me when you get the bill," House replied, dodging gratitude. Mark let him escape without pushing it, reminding him again, as if reminders were needed with the two in the same room, that Mark was Jensen's brother.

House studied the chart and the monitor strips. "Well, looking pretty good. I want to add one other prescription for you, though."

Mark tensed up a bit. "What's that?"

"One can of bug repellent. Available at any Walmart. Unfortunately, insurance won't pay on it, but remember, when you are going to site checks or installations where people have grasses and bushes around their houses, an ounce of prevention is a lot easier than a week in the hospital."

Mark gave a weak smile. "I'll be sure to get that filled." The smile faded. "Once I'm back to work, that is."

Jensen started firmly herding the kids toward the door. "Come on, he's getting tired. Time for you all to leave. Be sure to get some pictures of the tigers for me." A final chorus of byes and a few hugs, and Melissa left with the three children. Mark sagged a little bit; he had been trying to keep up a front for them.

Pam gave him a worried look, then turned to House. "Thank you," she said again.

"It's my job." He started for the door. "Rest up, and you might be out of here by the end of the week."

"They said you mentioned Wednesday!" Mark protested.

"I _guessed_ Wednesday, but I also clearly labeled that as a guess and said there might be some fudging." Actually, he thought Wednesday was a pretty good guess still, Thursday at the latest if things kept improving.

"You'll stay as long as you need to," Pam insisted, and House left them to quiet debate.

Jensen was outside the room, looking after his departing family. "Tigers?" House asked, stopping next to him. "Why not lions?"

The psychiatrist smiled at him. "Tigers are more interesting. No two have exactly the same stripes."

House nodded. "Valid point." He saw Jensen assessing him. "_Yes_, I got sleep this weekend, all sorts of sleep. I'm all caught up and ready for another week at the PPTH zoo now."

Jensen cut to the point. "Mark needs a good nap this morning himself. The kids wore him out, even if he was trying not to show it. So I'm free for the next few hours. I wondered if you'd like to talk some about everything that happened last week. Going over it from your point of view might help you before Dr. Cuddy's appointment this afternoon."

"How do you know her appointment is this afternoon?"

"She called me yesterday."

House sighed. "Let me guess, she's worried about me. I already knew that. She's worried about everything, including whether the sun will come up. News flash: She's kind of rattled at the moment."

"I know. She sounded almost in a panic attack when she called me; needed to talk to somebody, but she didn't want to wake you up."

"Thanks," House said awkwardly, turning away a bit so he didn't have to look at Jensen while saying it. He _had_ been worried about Cuddy being alone with no sounding board all those sleeping hours.

"You're welcome. And yes, she's worried about you, but that's not all she said. Wouldn't you like to hear the rest?"

House's attention perked up like a dog seeing a rabbit on the horizon. "What else did she say?"

Jensen looked around them. "We don't need to be having this conversation in the middle of the hall."

"Now that's not fair. You're just trying to lure me someplace private so you can get out the big shovel and dig a little."

"Life's not fair," Jensen replied pleasantly. "At least I'm not practicing false advertising. Do you want to know the rest of that conversation or not?"

House looked at his watch. "I need to go check on the President and then, if we don't have another case, give the Three Stooges other assignments for the day." Jensen waited, not backing down from his intent. "Meet me in my office in 30 minutes," House said finally, tossing the comment over his shoulder as he limped away.

"I'll see you there." With a surge of satisfaction, Jensen returned to Mark's room.


	50. Chapter 50

A/N: Quick updates at the moment due to low work. Ah well, every cloud has a silver lining. Wish that silver lining could pay the bills, though. Thanks for the reviews; they are like virtual chocolate.

(H/C)

By the time Jensen entered the office half an hour later, House was in his Eames chair playing his video game, trying to appear nonchalant, but the illusion shattered as soon as the psychiatrist arrived, and he deliberately wrecked his electronic car and set the game aside. "What else did she say?" he demanded.

Jensen caught the hidden insecurity underneath it. "Nothing bad. She certainly isn't getting tired of dealing with you." House relaxed slightly but still looked on edge. "You sent your fellows somewhere else, I take it?"

"Yes. And just talked to Cuddy to convince her I'm alive, so hopefully I'll have at least an hour before the next time." House shook his head, still amazed at the revelation. "She was actually worried about my safety. That's why she was checking up on me all the time; she just didn't want to admit to herself she was afraid. It wasn't about the work at all."

Jensen pulled one of the chairs in front of the desk over closer and sat down. "I realized that Friday night. When she saw me bringing you home, she immediately thought you'd been hurt. She absolutely panicked. I was tempted to get some of your Ativan and give it to her, but she wouldn't have accepted it. She would have just gotten mad at me. So how did you convince her Saturday morning to get help?"

"What else did she say to you yesterday?" House countered, his tone challenging, but Jensen heard the echoes underneath. Saturday morning was definitely going to be a charged topic.

Jensen yielded for the moment. He was still missing large chunks of data from last week that he thought he needed to know for a complete picture, but House was definitely keyed up and obviously needed more reassurance first. They certainly had enough ground to cover anyway; Jensen didn't want to get him annoyed or agitated straight out of the gate. Besides a more complete account of last week, there were three main areas from the call from Cuddy to deal with. One of them Jensen actually thought might be a positive in some ways, although Cuddy certainly hadn't seen it that way. The second, the denial of impact to try to protect her, would have to be cracked, and Blythe was a complete mystery. He hadn't been able to work out any strategy in advance with her; he simply didn't know enough.

He took the positive one first. "She said you kept having bad dreams all weekend."

He was watching closely to read the reaction there. Cuddy herself had thought House wasn't even aware of them when he woke up, and the response now was a firm negative. "Nope. One nightmare this weekend, but that's hardly all weekend. She's overmagnifying things right now."

"How many nightmares have you had in the last week?" Jensen asked, working on his own theory now, not Cuddy's.

House didn't want to answer that and looked away. "It's been a tough week. You'd have to expect I'd have a few."

"Yes, that makes perfect sense. In fact, where I'm going with this will surprise you, I think. How many since her being a hostage Tuesday night, Dr. House?"

"Four," he admitted. He immediately got defensive. "That's not even one a day on average. I'm not in another one of those 2-hour cycles."

"No, you're not," Jensen agreed. "And _that_ is the point that she wasn't seeing yesterday. She was simply worried. It didn't occur to her that this might actually be a form of progress." House looked up, startled at the conclusion. "Let's assume for the moment that you are in fact having serial unpleasant dreams, ones subconscious enough that they don't wake you up and aren't remembered. She had enough specific details that I have no doubt she's correct in that conclusion. That's not just a figment of her worried imagination. Assuming that fact, there were several very significant points that struck me. The first is that you _aren't_ having nightmares, at least not a full-fledged flare-up. Honestly, Dr. House, after the trauma of the last week, you could be expected to. But you aren't."

House was looking thoughtful now. "So you think these are something else instead of nightmares?"

"Yes. She actually said herself that she'd never seen anything like this from you, and she's had over two years of fairly constant observation. Again, that's an important statement. This is completely new. I think it's a substitute you're trying to manufacture to respond to the impact of last week and still avoid having to have nightmares. Part of that might be in an attempt to protect her, not to make her feel guilty, but I think that's a very small part of it, for two reasons. First of all, you are reacting in your sleep. She said you were as restless as you ever get. If you were only trying to avoid upsetting her, I think you'd be even more tightly clamped down and react less. The second point for me is the clincher, though. She said that these constant, repeated, unpleasant dreams average about two an hour. In your nightmare flare-ups, you base timetable from your father's 2-hour agenda, where he woke you up every two hours when your mother was absent for more abuse. You cut it just short of that on the schedule, trying to preempt him, but it's definitely still centered on his figure. What you are doing here is creating an entirely new timetable that has nothing at all to do with his. You're trying to invent your own response in sleep to extreme stress instead of going into a typical flare-up of your lifelong nightmares based on his agenda."

House tilted his head. "Let me get this straight. It's _good_ that I'm apparently having constant bad dreams?"

"Maybe not good, but it's _progress_. It's a step forward. That said, I think we do need to respond to it, for your sake as well as hers. Even if they aren't getting above the surface of your mind, they are still impacting the quality of sleep. I want to raise the dose on the sleeping pill from 2.5 mg back to 5."

Jensen expected some resistance on that point, and predictably, he got it. "No. Look, I really do feel rested up from sleeping all weekend. It isn't that bad. I can deal with this."

"Back to the nightmares, the full version. You said you've had four this week. That is definitely an increase over baseline; it had been few weeks since you'd had one, right? By the way, how did it work simply concluding not to have one on Memorial Day at the beginning of last week? That experiment was before all the additional stress."

House seized the change in subject, trying to distract the psychiatrist, although he really should have known better by now. "I didn't have one, but I did wake up instead, probably at the point where I was about to. Couldn't stay asleep. I got up and played the piano for awhile, and then I took the bike out and went to the cemetery."

That got Jensen's attention. "To the cemetery?"

"That's what people do on Memorial Day, right? I drove by Hadley's and Christopher's graves." House almost never called 13 by her nickname after her death.

Jensen smiled. "Now _that_ is progress. That's excellent, Dr. House."

"Yeah, except that Cuddy woke up earlier when I was playing, and I told her to go back to bed. Thought she was asleep again when I slipped out." Jensen flinched. "She wasn't, and she heard me leave, so she was up waiting for me when I came back and had to ask where I'd been."

"Did you tell her?"

"Yes. And she . . ." House slammed to a full stop, lost in the memory.

"She what?" Jensen prompted gently.

"Lisa told me she was proud of me." The end of that was almost a whisper, and Jensen was reading a whole volume in his body language. He would have expected bewilderment alongside reassurance, but far stronger than both of those was the uncertainty, magnified by the fact that he had switched terms in that tale from Cuddy to Lisa. He was questioning the sincerity of Monday morning based on the rest of the week.

"Do you think she was lying?" Jensen asked.

"I think she . . . I don't know. Maybe deluding herself." Her voice since stating _I'm disappointed in you_ echoed in his memory.

"What has she said specifically since that made you question that?"

House dodged sharply, returning to the point he himself had been trying to escape. "Back to raising the dose on the sleeping pill, I don't think it's necessary. I really _was_ getting sleep. This new dream system works well enough."

"I doubt it is equivalent to completely sound sleep, but consider Dr. Cuddy for a minute. She was so worried watching you sleep that she just about had herself wound up into a panic attack when she called me. I'm sure _she_ would feel much better if you were sleeping more soundly." House still looked stubborn. "Raising the dose is not a step back, Dr. House. It doesn't eliminate the progress. I think you have shown _incredible_ progress this last week in how you have handled everything. And I also think it's clear that you could use a little more medicinal help right now. That point doesn't negate the first one."

"We'll probably have it back up to 10 mg by the trial," House snapped, disappointed with himself.

"You know we will," Jensen replied, his tone perfectly even and not reacting to the emotion in House's. "We'd already discussed that. For the sake of your testimony, we had already agreed to knock you out at nights during the trial and not give the nightmares a chance to get hold. It's _not_ a weakness, Dr. House. Accepting help when you need it is a sign of strength. And again, having four nightmares in the last week tells me something. I'm glad you are trying to create an alternative to a flare-up as a stress response, but the verdict isn't totally in with that, and you're having a bit of a tug-of-war with it. It is a _victory_ over your father to admit that and to accept loading the dice against him."

House sighed. "Okay, damn it. I'll take it back up to 5 mg." The concession was more for Cuddy's sake than his.

"Thank you. A couple of more questions." House grinned slightly, and Jensen heard the thought. "Okay, more than a couple, but a couple more on this specific track. Have you had any panic attacks in the last week?"

"Yes," he admitted finally.

"How many?"

House had to stop and count, ending with the aftermath to the ultimatum to Cuddy Saturday morning. "Six," he said, but his voice was tightening up. Jensen watched him, fascination mixed with concern. The last one on House's mental list had been enough of a doozie that just thinking about it was producing a physiological response now.

"Have you heard your father's voice?" he asked, trying a new question that still should have had some emotional impact.

House relaxed a little, seizing the new question and for the first time answering one of these mental status inquiries without hesitation. "Yes, a few times."

And that thought was a comforting distraction for him? "This definitely _has_ been a tough week for you, Dr. House. It's not failure to admit that, and trying to conceal that won't help Dr. Cuddy, either. Remember what happened when you were trying to keep her pregnancy from her so she wouldn't worry?"

"It just made it worse," House admitted reluctantly.

"Yes. The _worst_ thing you can do to help Dr. Cuddy in her own healing is to deny the impact of her actions. She knows better, Dr. House, and you telling her otherwise will just make her worry more about you." House looked thoughtfully stubborn, and Jensen switched subjects, giving him some space to digest that a while. "About the panic attacks, remember, the Ativan is there if you need it."

"I've used it." He was tightening back up again.

Jensen went for what seemed to be the current crux of his thoughts. "What was the last panic attack on your list you were thinking of?" he asked.

House visibly shivered. "I . . ." His breathing was picking up.

"Take your time," Jensen said. "Cut it down to one step at a time, in order."

"I woke up Saturday morning. Think I might have dodged a nightmare then, too. Lisa was absolutely crushing me, and it made me think of Dad."

"She was crushing you?" Jensen didn't intend to let him off this supercharged topic until it was out, but House seemed to need some help getting through things, and Cuddy obviously was central to it. A few prompts wouldn't hurt, getting closer to the main point but approaching slowly enough to keep him from getting overwhelmed.

"Yes. She hasn't been having nightmares this week; in fact, she's been sleeping a lot more heavily than usual. But she's turned into an octopus. She absolutely _seizes_ me, like she's afraid I'll disappear. She's literally pinning me to the bed."

"Is that why you couldn't sleep Thursday night?"

A flicker of shame swept across House's face as he remembered the sex Thursday night when she had been a woman possessed and he hadn't physically been able to keep pace with her. "Yes," he said, avoiding the other factor of their rough lovemaking setting his leg off. "It's been hard to sleep all week trapped like that. I guess by Friday night, I was tired enough to sleep for a few hours first before it woke me up again."

Jensen saw the avoidance but ignored it. Saturday morning was the peak they were ascending right now. Whatever else happened Thursday night that House was ashamed of took lesser priority. "She's not having nightmares, though?"

"No. I've tried the last two nights just holding her hand, and that seems to help her not need to crush me as much. That was after I realized how worried she was about me Saturday morning." He tightened up sharply again.

"So you woke up Saturday morning. What happened then?"

"I lay there thinking for a while. Then Abby woke up, and I got up and went to them. And. . ." He broke off.

"What about the girls?" Jensen was trying to project calm but was relentless now, too, pushing him step by step toward the climax.

"I was trying to walk softly, not to wake up Lisa. Didn't make as much noise with the cane as usual. When I turned on the light, Abby didn't know which one of us it was at first, and just for a second before she recognized me, I saw that she was _afraid._" House looked down, staring at and through his hands, which were wrestling with each other in agitation at this point. "Almost afraid. Uncertain. She was scared of Lisa. Then I woke up Rachel, shook her just like Lisa does so she wouldn't know, and she was, too."

"Do you think she had actually done something physically to them?" Jensen asked. He couldn't believe Cuddy would have gone quite that far this last week, and if she had, he didn't think House would have been sleeping all weekend while she was up with the girls.

"No. It was early. There are _stages_. They were just trying to figure out which version she would be, snappy and unpredictable or herself. And Rachel was taking it on to starting to wonder if it was her fault. They're relaxing fast already now that she knows what she was doing. It was just starting to be emotional but never physical."

"What did you do then?" Jensen asked. He thought he knew by now, but House needed to relive this step by step to process it.

"I got them back to sleep. Then I went back to the bedroom and woke Lisa up." His whole body was starting to tremble now. "I told her she was heading for emotional abuse of our girls. And I told her..."

He faded into silence again. Jensen reached over and took his pulse, which only confirmed all the visible signals. "Take an Ativan, okay?" House didn't protest, pulling the bottle out and getting into a fight with the childproof cap because his hands were shaking. Jensen gently took it from him and opened it, handing him a pill. He waited until it started to take effect. "You told her you would take the girls and leave unless she got help," he suggested. A little bit of help here wouldn't hurt. That memory was so charged for House that even telling it was pushing him, perhaps pushing him too far.

House nodded. His breathing was settling down but still not quite even.

"And that's what finally got her attention?"

"Yes. I went into the living room to give her some space to think. I was about to collapse in the bedroom just saying that. So I went to the living room, and that's when I totally lost it. She brought me the Ativan."

"And she believed you."

"Yes." Jensen could tell that something there puzzled him, though.

"What were you thinking of there? What surprises you about that?"

"She didn't go look at the girls. That's what I challenged her on, to wake them up and really look. She said I convinced her myself." His breathing was just about level now. "She took it without proof." That point still bewildered him.

"She had proof. Just not the proof you suggested. She saw _you_ that morning."

"That's what she said. But it wasn't . . ."

"You don't think it was as much as what she did to them, do you?" House was silent. "Dr. House, I want you to remember two points here. First, that took incredible bravery to give her that ultimatum. Excellent job. I'm proud of the way you handled that morning."

House looked up at him, feeling the warm sincerity of the statement. Ridiculous that having your psychiatrist say he was proud of you should mean that much, but it did. But then again, some part of him knew that Jensen wasn't just his psychiatrist and hadn't been for a while. Jensen reached across and squeezed his arm. "You did well," he repeated.

House let himself bask in that for a moment before the other shoe dropped. He straightened up, and Jensen immediately let go. "_Two_ things you want me to remember. What's the other one?"

"I doubt you're going to believe me here, but Dr. Cuddy herself confirmed it in yesterday's conversation. Given the amount of time she spends with you compared to the girls, and her fixation on your safety, yours above all as you have been so often at risk, she did a lot more damage last week to you by denying her fears than she did to Abby and Rachel." House started to refute that, and Jensen pushed on. "_But_ in everything that you tried, every argument you made to get her into therapy, you never tried that one. You never told her she was damaging you, like you finally told her she was damaging the girls. And if you had spoken up earlier on your own behalf, she would have listened."

House shook his head sharply. "No, she wouldn't. Not just with me."

"_Yes,_ she would have. She said that herself, and I absolutely believe her. If you had spoken up earlier, it would have ended the week sooner. Don't let your father lie to you and say that things _just_ involving you are less. You have equal voice with anyone else. You have equal rights to anyone else. And you should not stand and take abuse, even if emotional and not physical, even if from your wife. If that _ever_ happens again, from her or from anybody, you should call the other person on it immediately. Don't just accept that. It isn't what you deserve, and it never was."

House was struggling visibly with this concept. Jensen left it, giving him space to think about it. "But your failure to stand up for yourself doesn't negate your bravery Saturday morning. Again, _good_ job. Okay, total change of subject. There's one more thing that Dr. Cuddy mentioned in that conversation yesterday, and I'll admit, this one has me completely puzzled. I can't fill in the blank here."

House jumped at the change of topic, also enjoying seeing Jensen at a loss for once. "What's that?" he asked with a slight smile of anticipation.

"Your mother," Jensen replied.

The smile instantly vanished.


	51. Chapter 51

House didn't say anything, but he looked away again. Jensen gave him a few seconds, watching his body language, then pushed on. "Dr. Cuddy said that when your mother called Saturday night, she obviously said something that upset you and has been bothering you since."

_Relief_. Pure relief. House looked back quickly. "Nope. She is absolutely, 150% wrong on that. Mom hasn't come up with anything new. So you two can strike that one off the worry list."

"Do you really think I'm going to accept that?" Jensen asked.

"It's the truth," House protested.

"Very tightly defined, maybe. Okay, I'll change the question. What did _you_ tell _her_ in that conversation that upset you?"

House started fiddling with the handle of his cane. "That was supposed to completely throw you off track." Jensen gave him an apologetic grin but still waited pointedly for an answer. House knew this drill by now, as much as it annoyed him at times. If he absolutely refused to talk about something, Jensen would leave it alone (temporarily), but the psychiatrist would first force him to a direct statement that there was an issue there that he didn't want to talk about yet. Dodging and evasion never worked in sessions. House respected the other man for that even while being irritated by it. "It wasn't something she said," House admitted finally. "At least she didn't start it." Her reaction had been excruciating for him, though.

"So you started it," Jensen stated. "What exactly is the it in question?"

House sighed. "I haven't had a chance to tell you, but we've had some other things come up the last week with the girls. I'm not avoiding things, damn it. This is relevant."

"I didn't say anything," Jensen replied. "I can tell it's relevant." House was a coiled spring right now. Thinking about Saturday morning and his ultimatum to Cuddy had brought on a panic attack, but thinking about whatever this was simply cranked up the tension and insecurity many times over. Not panic, more an odd kind of resolve, but many emotional layers on top of it, too. If House had been like this exiting the bedroom after the phone call, no wonder Cuddy had concluded - correctly even if with directions reversed - that it was bothering him.

"Abby." An odd shimmer of pride through the tension. "Abby suddenly inserted herself into Rachel's piano lesson one night. The first time, she could do perfectly what Rachel hasn't been able to learn and retain over months. I've worked with her a few times since. The kid is a musical genius. She's young, of course, and her hands can't even reach anything like chords. She'll have to grow some. But it's _there_. I can tell, even now."

"And Rachel doesn't have it," Jensen concluded.

House gave a bittersweet smile. "She tries. She wants it _so_ badly. But no, I don't think she has any sense of tonality or rhythm at all. Even when she bangs, it isn't on a steady beat, and she's not hunting for a steady beat, just happy to make noise. It is noise, not music, and she's satisfied with that as long as she's not comparing herself to my playing. I actually wrote a C on her little piano Thursday night to help her find C. In six months, she hasn't been able to find middle C, not even during a lesson, much less retain it. She could at least find it marked, but she couldn't go anywhere from it still. I know she's young, but I don't think she has any musical talent whatsoever. And Abby clearly does, and Abby's going to pass her like a Corvette going around a Model T on the highway in lessons."

"That is a challenge," Jensen agreed. "It's only natural that Abby was more likely to share your talent, though."

"I know once I thought about it. The odd thing is, I don't even think of Rachel as adopted anymore. I'd forgotten there are a few areas where genetics actually are going to be relevant."

"So what have you done about it?"

"Well, that first night, Rachel tackled Abby, and they got into a full fight. Rachel was yelling that Abby had touched her piano. So I brought home that roll-up keyboard you gave me, and I gave that to Abby. Each girl with her own, and they aren't allowed to touch each other's. We also agreed to split up lessons. The other girl will go out of earshot and do something with Lisa. They don't need to be watching the other one in lessons; Rachel would resent Abby that much more, and Abby couldn't help trying to correct Rachel. Trying to correct Rachel is what kicked this off in the first place. But I _have_ to start working with Abby. Now that I know she's got it, I can't shut her out of that world. I wish I'd noticed sooner how much she was watching."

Jensen nodded. "Separating them is an excellent idea, as is a separate piano. But even alone, it's still not working for Rachel?"

"No. She's so frustrated. Lisa suggested maybe a different teacher, and we might try that at some point. But I really think there isn't any musicality there. Then Lisa said something Thursday that got me thinking." Jensen noted with interest that Cuddy was always Lisa in this unspooling tale. Even though it wasn't mentioned yet, he thought a lot of House's insecurity and tension with this topic hinged on her. "She said that she didn't think Rachel wanted the music so much as she just wanted to be like me, and that's what she sees me doing that's distinctively me."

"She's probably got a point. That's a very good analysis."

"Yeah. She went on to say that if Rachel saw my other interests or talents, she might accept them as a substitute for music." House looked down at his hands, stilled at the moment but clutching the cane tightly, his knuckles white. "The trouble is, I haven't _got_ other interests or talents. Other than being a doctor, and _Doogie Howser_ aside, a kid does NOT become a medical practitioner. Not even as a teen. Even if she is talented medically, doing anything with it is a couple of decades down the road after years and years of training."

Jensen considered protesting that House hardly was limited to two talents, but he didn't want to derail this story now that it was unfolding. House was already crackling with tension. "So what did you decide to do?"

House resumed drumming his fingers on the cane. "I used to be able to do things physically. Before my leg. I played lacrosse; I ran." He blinked a few times. "Damn it, I was _good_ at it, too. I loved it. And thinking about Rachel, at the moment, that's what I see more of in her. So much energy and motion. She runs just for the joy of it when we're outside or we go to the park. I think she's probably more likely to excel at some kind of athletics than she is with music. Only she doesn't associate those things with me, because to her, I've always been the slow old guy with the cane."

He paused for a minute, and Jensen left it alone, just trying to project warm support but not pushing him. House continued. "There are some pictures from when I was younger. Even one DVD. It was camcorder at first, of course, but Mom came once to a lacrosse game my senior year and taped part of the game. She gave it to me. It was converted to DVD eventually, but I don't have it anymore. After my leg, when I had just gotten home, I took all the sports pictures I had of myself and that DVD, and I threw them away. Stacy fished them out of the trash and sent them back to Mom. I didn't speak to her for a week." The silence lengthened again. Jensen reached across and touched him lightly on the arm, warm, reassuring contact, but said nothing. House looked startled at first, but he didn't pull away. "Saturday night, I asked Mom to mail me those pictures and the DVD, and she said she would today. Of course, that was after I had to endure five minutes of how glad she was that I was ready to see them again." He didn't feel ready, but this wasn't for him, so what he felt didn't matter.

"You're going to show them to Rachel," Jensen concluded.

House nodded. "I need to. I need to do something for her so she finds an activity she can associate with me and won't resent Abby as much."

Jensen squeezed his arm. "Dr. House, that is a marvelous idea. Again, I am so impressed with how you're handling things here. And for what it's worth, I agree with you on Rachel. Athletics might even eventually steady her a bit and impose self-discipline that way. She's young, of course, but in time."

"Right." House remembered the joy of running, finding a rhythm, of systematically training his body and feeling it respond. Not at 2 1/2 but some day, maybe Rachel could share that and be like him. "But I'm..." He trailed off again. He couldn't quite say the word scared, not openly.

Jensen heard it anyway. "Letting your daughters see you before you were disabled isn't going to change their esteem at all. They will still prefer the version they get now. The only thing it will do, like you said, is let Rachel identify you with other activities that she isn't able to see you do now." He watched House's expression. "But you're worried about Dr. Cuddy, too, aren't you?"

House abruptly moved, and Jensen let go of his arm as he hauled himself to his feet. He took a couple of limping circles of the office, stretching out his leg, and finally came to a stop at the balcony door. He suddenly came to attention as he realized that Wilson was standing at his own balcony door obviously trying to see into House's office without being obvious. House gave him an inquiring glare, and the oncologist immediately disappeared.

Jensen waited until Wilson had apparently stopped spying on them to go on. "What has she said to you this week that bothers you so much about your leg?" Jensen asked. The psychiatrist was still seated.

House's shoulders drooped. "I couldn't even count those. Little comments all over the place, what I can't do, what I'm not up to anymore."

"She was in denial of her own fears. She didn't mean that she found you inadequate now. She was tied up in her reaction to Tuesday night."

"I know, damn it." He shook his head. "Logically, I know that."

"But logic has not much to do with emotions, and it still hurt intensely to have her say that. Have you told her that?"

"She knows it. She's apologized for that specifically. She even said that's not what she thinks."

Jensen stood up, closing the gap and coming to stand beside him. "But you still think she might be deluding herself, like you phrased it earlier?"

House stared through the glass, not looking at the man by his side although he was pathetically glad that Jensen had come to join him. "She saw me. Before the leg, I mean. She's actually seen me running, playing lacrosse. A long time ago, though, and maybe she's forgotten what it was like. What if seeing that again makes her realize . . ."

"It _won't_, Dr. House."

"She said she was disappointed in me," he said quietly. "And that wasn't even about the leg that time."

"May I make a suggestion?" Jensen asked.

House turned toward him eagerly, glad for any practical advice out of this jam instead of just more recited reassurance that Cuddy hadn't really meant what she said. "Yes."

"Separate her from Rachel. This is getting too much for you, both issues at once. When that DVD and those pictures come, go over it with Dr. Cuddy alone first."

That wasn't the kind of solution he really wanted. "There's not any easier way?" He dreaded Cuddy seeing it even more than he did the girls. "Maybe I could do that backwards somehow, get Rachel alone first. She could never keep a secret, though, not even five minutes."

"No. You need to see Dr. Cuddy's reaction and deal with that before you show it to your daughters. Trust her, Dr. House. She didn't mean what she said. And I also think telling her specifically some of her remarks would help clear things between you."

"She already feels guilty. I don't want to rub it in."

"Part of what she feels guilty about is that she knows she intensely hurt you, and she knows you are trying to minimize it. She can't start to heal from her guilt until you allow yourself to admit to her what she's done. Downplaying things isn't going to help her, Dr. House. But trust me, she will _not_ feel like she made a bad bargain when she sees your former self. She prefers the version she's got now."

The cell phone rang right then, Cuddy's ring tone. "It's her," House said. "Probably wants to make sure I'm still alive."

Jensen nodded. "I'll leave you. We've done as much as we need to in one gulp anyway, possibly more. Just remember, Dr. House, good job coping with this past week." With a parting smile, the psychiatrist turned away and left the office.

House pulled out the cell phone. "Hi, Lisa. I'm okay."


	52. Chapter 52

A/N: Short chapter, but half of my free time today was taken up washing my dog. That is indeed a task of monumental proportions (125 pounds of Hates Baths). Tuesday isn't likely for an update; busy day. Maybe Wednesday or Friday.

(H/C)

For Wilson, it was a restless morning. He went to see Daniel first thing on arriving at the hospital, of course. His son was improving steadily, and Wilson tried to imagine that there was recognition in those chocolate eyes, so similar to his. In the next moment, he told himself mentally that that was ridiculous. Someday, someday _soon_, he promised fiercely, Daniel would recognize him, but to this point, he was far more likely to remember the NICU nurses. Wilson spent some time talking to the nurses himself, making sure everything was going smoothly medically.

He then hurried to his office in case Jensen wanted the first slot this morning, but the psychiatrist called him just after he got there to say it would be the afternoon. That meant Jensen would be talking to House this morning. Left with a totally free hour, Wilson divided his time between worrying about convincing Sandra he was sincere this time and worrying about what new could be wrong with House. He tried peering across the balcony a few times through the glass door, doing some subtle spying, but House wasn't at his desk. If he was in there with Jensen, he was on the other side of the office. Finally, at the fourth attempt, he did spot House, who looked tense, on edge about something, and who unfortunately also noticed him. House's glare pushed Wilson back to his desk to stay, but the charts were unopened. He wanted to check on his friend but didn't want to interrupt Jensen.

Eventually, he pulled out his cell phone and called Sandra to update her on Daniel. She appreciated the news, and that finally distracted him from pinballing mentally between his own and House's problems. They actually had a nice talk for a few minutes anticipating their son coming home and discussing what still needed doing logistically. There wasn't much yet undone, but Daniel had been an early arrival, after all. Wilson was startled when his first patient of the day knocked on the door, and he quickly ended the call and prepared to immerse himself in work, to be there for the patients. This new week, he vowed, would be completely different from the last. Last week was _over_.

That resolution was challenged immediately. His first patient of the day was a familiar one whom he'd been seeing for over a year. Unfortunately, she also had been seeing _him_ for over a year, enough to feel connected by his trademark bedside manner, and she interrupted his greeting to ask anxiously, "Oh, Dr. Wilson, what on earth happened to you? Did somebody _hit_ you?"

Wilson reached up toward the left side of his face, where the bruising was starting to fade but still visible. He'd tried to tell himself getting ready that morning that it wasn't that obvious anymore. So much for that theory. "I . . . walked into a door," he lied.

She wasn't buying it. "Now, Dr. Wilson, don't try to tell me that. I've walked into a few doors myself over the years, and that's not from a door. But who on earth would hit _you_?" She caught her breath as a new idea occurred to her. "Did you get _mugged?_ I swear, the streets aren't safe anymore these days. Not like when I was a girl. I don't know what the world is coming to."

The oncologist tried to keep his pleasant smile on his face. "Really, it wasn't a big deal. It's already fading."

"Did they steal your money? Have you canceled your credit cards? Don't forget about your Social Security card, and you need to put an alert on your credit report immediately, too, so they'll know to watch for new accounts being opened. I read all about identity theft in an article last week."

"Mrs. Gibson, I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. Really. Now, we need to talk about you. How have you been feeling lately?" Firmly, he wrenched the topic onto her case, and the appointment proceeded, but he had to go through the same initial ordeal with his next patient.

He survived his morning eventually, and he walked across to the diagnostics office as lunch time was approaching. House was at his desk, wearing his reading glasses, apparently dissecting some medical article on the internet. "Hey," Wilson greeted as he entered. "You look like you were just waiting for somebody to buy you lunch."

House grinned and sat back in his chair. "Good idea, but not today, I'm afraid. Cuddy is coming up in fifteen minutes after her current conference ends to have lunch with me and make sure in person I'm still alive." He looked at his watch. "You'd better be gone before she gets here if you want to avoid her. She might not totally kill you like last week, but she's not back to normal yet, either."

"Thanks for the warning." Wilson studied him, and House immediately tensed up, remembering the spying across the balcony from earlier. Wilson quickly jumped into the gap. "So, Cuddy's agreed to therapy."

"Yep. Actually starting it today; her first appointment is this afternoon. She's not back to herself yet, like I said, but at least now, she knows it and she's going to get help. She's going to be okay." He looked and sounded relieved.

"How did you manage that? You'd already tried talking to her, tricking her, bribing her, having others talk to her. So what was left?"

House's tension level immediately jumped by a factor of ten. "I . . . never mind. It worked. That's all that matters." Wilson looked at him, fighting both concern and curiosity, and House's tone had a rod of iron in it as he went on. "_Leave it_, Wilson."

The oncologist literally backed a step, spreading his hands disarmingly. "Okay, okay. None of my business anyway. I just hope you talked . . ." He quickly trailed off again. Full marks to Jensen for concluding there was something bothering House here, but whatever it was was clearly bigger than Wilson's friendly presence, at least in a 15-minute quick visit. He'd leave it for now but keep his ears open for the future and try to be there more gradually. "I went down to see Daniel this morning," he said, wrenching the subject onto a less-charged-for-House field.

House relaxed some. "So how's the sprog doing?" Wilson gave him the report in full medical detail, and they discussed a few timetable predictions. Wilson was no more informed when he left the office a few minutes later, but at least House wasn't a visible nerve anymore. He almost looked normal. Wilson hoped Jensen had earned his fees this morning.

Deep in thought, Wilson took the elevator down to get his solo lunch. Cuddy was waiting to get on in the lobby, and he nearly walked straight into her before noticing and freezing in his tracks. It was the first time since her scathing voicemail that they had actually been face to face, other than the brief, aborted rant in House's office Friday morning. He gulped.

Cuddy looked him up and down. He was the professional picture of a doctor, facial bruises aside, but he also looked like just now like a puppy caught peeing on the carpet. He had made a set of mistakes last week that still stunned her at their scope - but then, so had she. At least she hadn't voluntarily decided to walk out on her family in crisis, though she wondered how much damage she had done to them by so pointedly being there. Sandra obviously was choosing to forgive him, but Cuddy hoped it wouldn't be too easy. Wilson didn't deserve an easy road back. He needed a firm lesson in commitment if he was to have any future with his family. She still felt she really didn't deserve forgiveness either, but the open acceptance she was getting from House and the girls reassured her at the same time as she marveled at it. "I hope you realize how lucky you are," she said to Wilson, her voice low but intense, every word punctuated.

He nodded quickly, nervously, looking like a bobblehead oncologist. "I do," he replied, but his voice was tight and tense, more a squeak, not carrying the conviction he meant it to. Her eyes were uncomfortably direct.

She moved, breaking the spell, and abruptly pushed on past him, entering the elevator. Wilson let out a deep sigh, but her statement was still ringing in his ears as he headed for the cafeteria.


	53. Chapter 53

A/N: Short update again. Next we get Jensen and Wilson, and after that House/Cuddy/Patterson, which will be a doozie. Busy weekend on the horizon, and I doubt either of those chapters makes it, but they will come, sooner or later. Thanks for all the reviews.

(H/C)

Cuddy held herself to a walk leaving the elevator on 4, but it was a brisk, purposeful walk. Hopefully anybody watching would think it was just administrative. Into his office, and there he was, sitting behind his desk, reassuringly warm and alive and healthy - as near as he got to it, anyway. He looked up and smiled at her. She just studied him for a minute. She had forced herself to go all morning without seeing him, though with several brief phone conversations. "This is ridiculous!" she announced, self-annoyance surging in to replace the worry now.

He stood up. "No, it's not. It's _human_. It hasn't even been a week yet, and you thought you might never see your family again." He was still amazed that she was this locked in on him in particular, though. Still hard to believe that he mattered that much to her. He came across and embraced her, and she leaned into him for a minute before pulling back, aware of the glass walls.

"So what?" he answered her thought. "We're _married_, Lisa, and it's not like we're standing in the middle of the lobby." He dove back in to complete the kiss. "See? That's a much better way to reassure yourself, isn't it?" Privately, she had to agree, and he read her mind. "So the vote is unanimous. Forget about appearances."

"I _can't_ forget about appearances. Not totally anyway. I do have a job here that requires me to be professional, Greg."

"Trust me, you're in no danger of forgetting that you're a professional. So how was your morning?"

"It was . . . a bit odd but not too bad. Nobody's mentioned anything, like you said." She studied him, wondering about Jensen, but by the unspoken rules, she could not pry into that, not unless he offered. "How was yours?"

"Pretty boring. Read a few articles by deluded idiots who think they've been brilliant, played some video games." He relented. She looked too tense for it to be fun to string her along. "Talked to Jensen for awhile."

Her relief was visible. "Good." She was trying not to push, not to dig for more, even though she was itching for a full transcript of that session.

"I'm _okay_, Lisa. Come on, let's head for lunch." He saw the disappointment as she turned away, and further, he saw the true concern beneath it this time. This really _was_ worrying her. "We're going to take the dose on the sleeping pill back up to 5," he said, throwing her a bone. He didn't feel like a complete recap of that session, definitely not the part with the girls yet, but she looked like she needed something.

She let out a deep sigh. "Good. _Thank you_, Greg. If you'd watched yourself sleep all weekend . . ."

"I don't even remember dreaming," he assured her. Well, apart from Saturday night's nightmare. _That _he definitely remembered. Trying to distract himself as well as her now, he hurried on. "I was getting rest, even if it didn't look like it. Besides, Jensen actually thinks this is progress."

Cuddy looked dubious to put it mildly. "Easy for _him_ to say. He didn't see you, either."

"No, really, Lisa. I was skeptical at first, too. But he thinks I'm trying to invent a new stress response that's less than the nightmares, one that doesn't keep jolting me awake all the time. That's good."

She hadn't thought about it quite that way, but she still had trouble thinking of this as positive. She was glad the psychiatrist had insisted on upping the dose as well - that never would have been House's suggestion. "What else did you talk about?" she asked, unable to resist temptation any longer. "Did you go over. . ."

He tensed up. He couldn't, not now, not yet. "Last week, things in general. Yes, it was a bad week, but I promise, I will be okay. Come on, let's go get lunch." He started for the door of the office, pulling her along. Obviously, he had hit the limit on sharing from that session. No mention at all of Blythe. Had he mentioned whatever she had done to Jensen? Jensen had said he would fish for it, but what if House just locked up on him, too? At least she knew her husband was safe right now, but she had nonphysical worries chasing each other in circles in her head as she followed him toward the elevator.

(H/C)

Cuddy re-entered her office after lunch, still feeling restless, replaying her last conversation with House in her mind. She had been careful to keep off emotional topics during lunch so he would eat. They had mainly talked about Daniel, him giving her an update on his case, and afterward, they had both gone down to the NICU to see Wilson's son, the first time Cuddy had seen him. So many memories of Abby tied up in that place, but they were positive, though stressful, memories. Abby had survived. Daniel would, too; he was vigorous and reactive and looked far better than many of his roommates. Cuddy had to smile at the full name on his unit, and she could tell even House was proud, although he characteristically tried to downplay it.

"Wilson deserved that," she said to House in the elevator; she was seeing him back up to his office. The thought from her encounter earlier immediately chased that one, that she herself had made large errors and hurt her family last week, too.

House read her expression flawlessly, and he gave her a quick, comforting squeeze. "You didn't do the same thing, Lisa. You never walked out on us."

"Might be better if I had."

"No," he said definitely. "It was only a few days. No permanent damage. None for our family, I mean; jury is still out on Wilson's."

The elevator door opened, and she followed him to the office. "Do you think he and Sandra will stay together?"

"Don't know. I don't think she should make it easy for him; he is a serial offender on breaking commitments. But I think things might really be different this time. The kid seems to have woken him up somehow. Hope so, anyway. Sandra is good for him."

"I hope so, too." She really did, even though she was still mad when she thought of the oncologist just walking away from PPTH Wednesday night. She would like to see them as a family together. Her mind flipped back immediately to her own family. "Greg, did . . . did talking with Jensen help?"

He tightened up on her again. She was approaching a line, and his body language left her in no doubt of it. "Yes," he said curtly. "I'll be okay, Lisa. We all will."

She came over to give him a kiss, letting him know silently that she was dropping the subject for now, and he responded warmly. "See you this afternoon."

"See you then. And call me when you need to, Lisa. It's all right."

"I will."

She sat in her office now, fiddling with a pen until she caught herself and stopped. She was positive there was something going on with Blythe, but she could hardly force House to confide in her. She didn't blame him for not wanting to. She could call Jensen, but there she would run up against the wall of confidentiality. He would never repeat what House had said to him in the privacy of a session.

She could call Blythe. She reached out for the phone eagerly on that thought. Blythe was a lot easier to manipulate for information than her son; the whole episode with Patrick had proven that. Blythe probably knew that she had upset her son Saturday night; House had been in absolute knots when he left the bedroom. That guilt would make her more pliable. Cuddy could release some frustration on her, which no doubt the other woman deserved, and go on a fact-finding expedition at the same time. She picked up the phone, then hesitated, gritting her teeth.

Releasing some frustration. The trouble was, while she _was_ sure that Blythe had bothered House, she could not be sure that a conversation with Blythe, ripping her open and seeing what facts emerged, wouldn't be partly projecting her own stress and fears onto others, like she had done last week with her family. She knew after Saturday morning that she was not quite thinking clearly or seeing her responses objectively at the moment and that her actions could have collateral damage far beyond her intentions.

Her fingers drummed on the desk beside the phone. There was also the fact that she wanted House to tell her. She didn't want to have to fish it out of Jensen (okay, _fail_ to fish it out of Jensen) or fish it out of Blythe, even if the latter were successful. She wanted him to trust her with it. But the fact that he didn't was nobody's fault but her own, and ripping his mother apart would do nothing to fix that. Trust needed to be rebuilt. A conversation with Blythe would rebuild nothing as far as House was concerned and might even cause more harm.

She pushed the phone away, trying to remove temptation, and looked at the picture of the family on her wall. Together, all four of them. Finally, she picked up the phone and called him.

"Hi. I'm all right, Lisa." He sounded a bit worried, though. It wasn't that long since she had been up in his office.

"Actually, that's not why I'm calling. I just wanted to . . . apologize for trying to push you on your session earlier. Just tell me whatever you want to when you want to, and that's enough. I won't pry on the rest."

Silence for a moment, and he sounded startled when he spoke. "Are you . . . apology accepted." He quickly deflected, shying from the emotion. "I must say, I prefer getting them in person, though. Complete with the matching choreography."

She smiled, remembering all that "sorry" reconditioning. "That was an interim apology. We'll have an official one with choreography later."

She heard the smile in his voice. "Deal, but I'll hold you to it."

"Do that. I've got to get back to work, Greg. I love you."

"I love you, too."

She hung up, but the smile lingered as she dove back into paperwork, holding the anxiety at bay for a few minutes.


	54. Chapter 54

A/N: Okay, you do get one this weekend. The next chapter, the big triple session with Cuddy, is a whopper and will probably take a while. On the other hand, Monday is a federal holiday, which means work will be low, and I'll be fishing all day, so I'll most likely have some time then. We shall see. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Wilson had sat across the cafeteria alone watching House and Cuddy during lunch. To an intense analysis like his, as well as he knew them, their body language was somewhat off, an awkwardness, a little stiffness there. Tentativeness overlaying their usual spark. But for all that, they _were_ together, obviously so. Nobody watching them could have taken them for anything other than a couple. They were both sitting on the same side of a booth, slightly touching at intervals in the conversation, sometimes intentionally though discreetly (no doubt at Cuddy's insistence) and sometimes apparently just finding each other without conscious thought, as compass needles will irresistibly find north. Every now and then, one of them would finish the other's sentence. He couldn't hear their conversation, but watching them throughout the meal was a conversation in itself.

Damaged. Scarred. Healing. Together.

Their relationship would be okay. He wondered if the same could be said for him and Sandra.

Back up in his office, he gnawed over that like a dog with a bone, then gave it up for further worry over what could be bothering House now and how on earth he had broken Cuddy down Saturday morning. House had tensed up so much at that question; whatever the answer was must be something major. Wilson even tried writing out a list of possibilities, but he was stumped. House seemed to have covered everything already in his failed attempts. Once the oncologist's next appointment came in, that one, too, asked about the left side of his face; her hypothesis was that he must have seen somebody in trouble and stepped into the middle of someone else's fight. This disconnect between how others apparently saw him and what he knew himself he had done was humbling. With an inward sigh, he wrenched the appointment back onto medical tracks.

The next visitor was Jensen. Wilson didn't even wait for him to get seated. "Did you talk to House? Is he okay?"

The psychiatrist took the chair in front of the desk. "Yes, and yes," he confirmed. "He'll be all right."

"He'll as in the contraction for he _will be_? As in he's not now?"

"James, you know I'm not going to go into details about his sessions with you, no more than I share yours with him. If you're really worried about him, either ask him yourself, or. . ."

"I tried that already," Wilson interrupted. "I went over before lunch and asked him how he'd convinced Cuddy Saturday morning that she needed help."

Jensen tightened up there himself, a mirror image, even if a lesser one, to House's reaction to that question. Wilson could almost see the sign with the message in large, black letters, readable even at a distance. No Trespassing. "What did he tell you?" the psychiatrist asked, his tone guarded now

Wilson sagged in his chair. "Nothing. He absolutely locked up on me and told me to back off. Actually came right out and said that, didn't just try to wiggle off the subject." He shook his head, frustrated. "I need to know."

"Why?" Jensen asked.

The oncologist stared at him as if that answer were obvious. "Because I'm his friend."

"Do you have to know that answer to keep being his friend?"

"No, but it helps. Lets me know how I can be there for him. Besides, it's good for him to talk about things instead of bottling them up."

"So he's bottling things up until he discusses it specifically with _you_?"

Wilson squirmed. How had a simple, concerned question about his friend ended up at this point? "We'd better get down to me this last week, I guess," he dodged.

"We will. But in a way, we're already getting there. If you want to change your former response patterns, which are the ones that culminated in Wednesday night, you first need to admit what those responses are. And one of them is that especially when you are under personal stress, you start digging in _other people's_ closets, to find out their secrets and analyze those as an attempt to distract from your own. You need to acknowledge that tendency to try to modify it. You can't use others as a distraction from yourself."

"I really _am_ concerned about House as a friend," Wilson said, defensive hackles rising.

"I know. That's why I actually gave you an answer to your initial question instead of claiming confidentiality immediately and refusing to give you anything. However, I would be willing to bet right now, still not knowing last week in full detail, that one step that night before you ran was that you found yourself pinned down in your own crisis with nobody else around at the moment. You were alone, physically, when you made the decision to leave, weren't you?"

Wilson stared. "Um, yes. House had been with me in the OR observation room. He left and went to Daniel; I told him to."

"So you were alone in the room right then."

"Yes. So what are you saying? That I should never be alone with myself?"

"No. That being alone with yourself terrifies you when things personally aren't going well, but you don't want to admit that. You don't like the idea that you often use other people as distractions from yourself as well as friends. I'm not questioning the friendship; you are definitely a good and supportive friend, especially when someone else is in a tight spot and needs one. I'm just saying that for you, friendship often has another few layers mixed in. You use the challenge of their behavior and situations to keep you from having to think about your own actions and feelings too much. That doesn't invalidate the friendship, but call the evasion by its proper name." Wilson was silent, and Jensen switched back to the former topic, giving him a little bit of a breather. "Back to my sentence a few minutes ago, you never let me finish."

Wilson was grateful for the distraction, then caught himself noticing how grateful he was for it just then. Did he really use people like that? "Which sentence?"

"I was saying, if you are really worried about Dr. House, either ask him yourself or just be a friend without having to know the details."

"How could I be a friend if I don't know what he's up against?"

"Just be there. You don't always have to know everything. You can still be there for somebody without it."

Wilson grinned suddenly. "You ought to be telling this to him, not me. He's the absolute champion of unable to leave anything alone. There isn't a rock in this hospital he hasn't looked under and then conducted a differential on what he found there."

"He has some issues there, too," Jensen agreed. "With somewhat different reasons than yours, but yes. But how is that relevant to you?" Wilson was stumped by the straightforward question. The psychiatrist went on. "To draw an extremely extended example, suppose Patrick used that defense in court next month. 'But lots of other people have abused children, too. You're acting like I'm the only one. Here are the names of others, lots of them even worse than me.' Do you think that argument should carry any weight at all with the jury?"

"No," Wilson admitted glumly. "Put like that, it does sound ridiculous."

Jensen smiled at him. "You know, James, one of the hardest things Mark and I had to learn was how to be friends, when to push for more and when to back off. We're... this is hard to describe, but there's a connection there. Something that runs in the background constantly. We basically are aware what the other one is feeling all the time emotionally and somewhat physically. That made it harder to be friends, and we had to learn how as we grew up."

Wilson was fascinated. "I'd think that would make it easier to be friends."

"No. It presents a whole other challenge. Specifically, it begs the question of when to leave things alone. We get feelings, impressions. Not facts. I know what kind of mood he's in but not why. We've both had to learn, with some trial and error, when to just let the feelings be enough and grant the other one some privacy. And really, that's the appropriate response the majority of the time. I don't _have_ to know every last detail going on in his life to share the feelings with him. Sometimes, we're even grateful that there's a limit, that there's something the other one _doesn't_ know. Can you imagine somebody knowing _everything_ about you at all times? That wouldn't be friendship; that would be absolutely suffocating. If there were such a person in your life, one with _no_ limits to what was shared, you would very quickly start avoiding their company."

"I see what you mean. This has always just been there between you? I've read studies, but it's another thing to hear first hand."

"Yes, it has. Except for one period in childhood when I deliberately clamped up and switched off for a while and was determined not to share _anything_ mentally with him." Jensen rubbed his right arm.

"That was after you got hurt?"

"Right. I was mad at him, but I had to shut him out to be mad properly, because he would have known exactly how mad I was otherwise."

"You can shut it off? Like a switch?"

"Hardly that easily. It took an unbelievable amount of energy to do that, and I never could have kept it up forever. I was trying to nurse a grudge, but it took even more effort to hide the grudge I was nursing and left me too worn out to nurse it properly. We were kids, too. I doubt it would be possible to do that and go through a day of adult responsibilities at the same time."

"So that's how you knew he was sick?"

Jensen nodded. "I knew he was sick, but I didn't know _how_. I couldn't give Dr. House a set of symptoms. That was once that I wished I _could_ share more, facts as well as feelings."

"When he collapsed last week, did you know that?"

Jensen shuddered visibly. "Yes," he said, his voice abruptly tightening up. He reached over to his arm again after a minute's pause. "And when I got hurt, _he_ shared part of the pain. He knew more than anyone how much it was hurting me, and that just made him feel more guilty. He even thought for a while that was why I tried to shut things off while I was healing, to spare him from feeling that. But back to the point, what we've been forced through this link to learn is that a large part of friendship is still respecting privacy. We can share things without having to know every detail. In fact, we _shouldn't_ always know all the details. You need to work on that line in your friendships, James. Don't obsess on what you don't know. Think about what you _do _know. You know that your friend had a horribly stressful week last week, and you know that the main stressor is in the process of being resolved now. You can share the relief of that without trying to dig out the full story. The best friend sometimes is the one who does _not_ ask you questions."

Abruptly, an image flitted through Wilson's mind. House all those nights over the bachelor years when Wilson had lost a patient and come over. More of those nights involved _not_ talking about it than had involved talking. "What are you thinking of?" Jensen asked, watching his expression.

"House. He's actually good at that, just being there without digging out details. Odd; he really _is_ obsessed with details, can't stand a puzzle, but there have been nights over the years, a lot of them, when he was just there and let me not talk about something. He knew in general, but he didn't push for more."

Jensen nodded. "There's a saying. Not that this applies all the time, but sometimes, in a friendship, it's excellent advice. 'Don't do something; just stand there.' That's what you need to do right now that can best help your friend, James. Let him tell you what he wants to in his own time; don't push him on it. This last week was too stressful for him; he needs some privacy to start to heal. But the flip side of learning to be there for others, no strings or fact-finding shovel attached, is that you need to accept that from others, not using people as distractions to analyze so you can avoid thinking of your issues, just accepting their support without trying to dissect them. Back to Wednesday night." Wilson sighed, and Jensen gave him a sympathetic look. "You were watching the operation. Dr. House was there."

"Not at first. I called him when they took Sandra to surgery. It took him a few minutes to show up." Wilson suddenly remembered House's leg as well as the Cuddy crisis and felt guilty. His very first remark to his friend had been wondering what took him so long. It _always_ took House a few minutes to get across the hospital, very understandably, and who knew what he'd been pulled away from.

"What are you remembering?"

"I jumped on him first thing, the minute he came in. It took him a few minutes to arrive, like I said, and I challenged him on it and asked what took him so long."

"An unreasonable few minutes?"

"No. He probably got there pretty quickly, actually, especially considering his leg. He snapped back at me, said he'd stopped at Disneyland on the way or something like that, but then he shifted gears - almost visibly _made_ himself shift gears - and was just there. It _helped_. And then Daniel was born and couldn't breathe right, and I sent House down to help with him. That's when I wound up alone again."

"Was there _anybody_ else in the hospital that night, coworkers, friends, whom you could have called to ask them to come be with you?"

Several names immediately queued up in Wilson's mind, and he looked down, breaking eye contact. "Yes."

"Okay. We're dissecting this as it goes, to try to spot the potential exits you missed. Because it can _never_ happen again, James. If you want a family, you have responsibilities to them, and those responsibilities cannot be set aside. No matter how stressed you are feeling, no matter how bad your day is going, you still will have responsibilities to them. You can _never_ stop being there for your family. You can't opt out when it's difficult."

Wilson nodded. "I know that. I think I know it now, anyway."

"Good. Now, picking out possible exits from the highway to disaster. First of all, when you found yourself alone and under extreme stress, you should have called someone else after Dr. House left. You aren't limited to one friend. In the future, when you need people, reach out to them. Not to dissect out their secrets to distract yourself, but simply to draw support from their company. You have a lot of people who care about you, James. You would be there for them. Let them be there for you. Second, you do have the Ativan for when you start to panic. Did you take that?"

"Yes. House insisted that I take one when he got there."

"Good."

"And then I went out drinking on top of it."

Jensen flinched. "Bad. You know that as a physician, but translate it out of book knowledge next time. Back to the OR observation room. Dr. House left to go to Daniel. You started panicking again. You were getting overwhelmed, but you didn't call somebody else to support you. What then?"

"I turned off my cell phone."

Jensen closed his eyes briefly. "Okay, that's moving from bad to _horrible_ idea. Not only did you not reach out to others, you deliberately cut them off from reaching out to you. Why?"

Wilson took a minute to think through that. "I didn't want to get the call that he had died," he said softly. "I thought it was all my fault."

"Thank you for giving me an honest answer there. Okay, two points. First, his problems turned out to have nothing to do with you. So you jumped to a conclusion and then turned off any possible route to hear that you were wrong. I realize it's hard, especially with guilt attached, but beware of jumping to conclusions. Most of the ones we jump to in personal relationships are wrong. But second, and this is a tough one. Assume that you were right and that he was going to die. Would turning off the cell phone change anything?"

Wilson looked down. "I wouldn't have to know," he said.

"But you would know. Are you telling me that without a phone call to finalize it, you wouldn't have ever thought about him again, wouldn't have wondered about the funeral, wouldn't have thought of Sandra being there alone?"

There was a long pause. "No. I couldn't forget about them that night even when I tried."

"Exactly. And _that_ is what your family is. Not that you should try to forget them, even while mired down in guilt. But shutting off the cell phone, breaking the lines of communication, would have changed nothing if you were right about Daniel dying. Since you were wrong, it changed a _lot_ of things. Imagine what would have happened if you had been reachable that night."

Wilson ran a hand over his eyes. "I've kicked myself for that a thousand times so far. House would have called before too long. You know he left me 31 messages that night. _31_! He would have caught me with an initial update before I was too many drinks down at the bar. I would have come back to the hospital, I would have been there when Sandra woke up, and she never would have had to know. Everything would be okay between us."

Jensen shook his head. "You were doing fine up until the last part. I agree things would have been a lot easier, but you still should have told her at some point that you left."

"But you were just saying that it's not necessary to share every little detail on things," Wilson protested.

"Nice try. When you're talking about your mate, major things specifically about your relationship absolutely should be shared. You don't get somebody to trust you by hoping they never find out some way you messed up. That's another default response that you need to work on: You've used it with your former wives, and you've already also used it before with Sandra. Shoveling things under the rug is just going to make it worse when they are found. You made a lot of mistakes Wednesday night, failing to call someone else to support you, shutting off the lines of communication, going out to get drunk. But none of those was your biggest mistake, James. The biggest one was deciding to walk out in the first place."

"But I _did_ decide to come back," Wilson emphasized. "Without knowing the truth about Daniel yet. When I still thought it was my fault."

"That's excellent. No doubt that fact has helped you with Sandra."

"I think it did. We listened to the cell phone messages together, so she could hear they were new messages. She's still mad, but that did help."

"She's not mad, James; she's _hurt_. It's hard to distinguish the two sometimes, especially with women. Tell me, what made you decide to come back?"

"That was weird. After I left, I went to a bar just to forget everything. I'm still not sure on some of the details that night; they say I asked them to call my sponsor, and I have no memory of that. But the one thing I _do_ remember is that I couldn't forget them. Daniel and Sandra. The harder I tried, everything else got fuzzy, but I still remembered them. My sponsor said I wanted to come back that night, but he stopped me."

"Good. That would have made things even worse."

Wilson spread his hands. "So where do I go from here?"

"You don't _go_ anywhere. For the moment, Sandra should know absolutely where you are at all times. It goes without saying that you should keep your cell phone on."

The oncologist nodded vigorously. "I've turned into paranoid checking of it, making sure I haven't missed a message. I'm not going anywhere. I found out Wednesday night that I can't even when I try anymore. I don't want to; I want to be there for them. But how do I fix things?"

"Have you ever seen a large city building under construction, James?"

"Of course. Lots of times."

"Have you ever seen one completely built overnight?"

"No. All right, I get it; things take time."

"Yes, they do. But what would happen if they tried to speed it up, cut corners, not work as carefully? Would they get a better building at the end?"

"No. So I just wait?"

"You _work_ on your relationship. Put conscious effort into it. And watch the progress; don't forget to watch the progress. You _can_ see little changes regularly in a building along your route, even though it takes time. You and Sandra are rebuilding trust. Think of it as a building that's been damaged badly, hit by a tornado or something. The first step is to clean out the debris; if you started rebuilding on top of the broken bits, it wouldn't work. If, for instance, you had made it back to the hospital before she woke up and were sober and able to talk to her but you tried to hide the fact you had left, that would be trying to rebuild on top of wreckage. You have to get the debris out first. But then, once you can see clearly to evaluate what's left, you usually find out that a lot of the foundation is still usable. The foundation is your love for each other, and that's important. With a bad foundation, a building will never be safe. But rebuilding the structure over that foundation will take time and work. Don't try to cut corners, James. The end result will be worth it."

"So you think we've still got a chance to be a family together?"

"Yes, I do, but that's up to you."

"I can do better. I have to." Wilson pulled the note pad on his desk over, intending to write down some of Jensen's exits off the road to disaster. The top sheet was his list of how House had tried to convince Cuddy and what might be left. He flinched, pulled it off, crumpled it up, and threw it away, starting on a new page. Jensen watched him but didn't comment.

"One last suggestion, James, and then I need to get out of here before your next appointment comes. You might try getting some physical reminder of your commitment to them and keeping it with you all the time. A picture, a piece of her hair, a ring. Something that you can see and touch that symbolizes them to you. It can help when you get tempted." Jensen hesitated, then pulled out his own wallet and extracted a small twist of hair that was in the fold underneath his money. "Melissa and Cathy. I can take that out and remind myself what's important when I really get tempted to let work take too much time again. It doesn't even have to be visible to anybody else; _you_ will know it's there. It's helped me."

"I'll try that. Thanks."

Jensen stood up. "Good luck, James. Rebuilding _can_ be done, and a lot of times, the second version of the building is even better than the first." He reached across to shake hands, then left the office. Wilson glanced at his watch. He had two minutes until his next appointment. He spent them studying his list.


	55. Chapter 55

House showed up ten minutes early at Cuddy's office, afraid she'd be worried otherwise that he might be late. She was one knotted cord of tension already anyway as she finalized her desk before leaving, and he walked around her chair to rub her shoulders. "I've been doing this for over two years, Lisa, and I haven't died at an appointment yet. Relax."

She tried for at least two seconds before checking another pile on her desk, apparently making sure the order on those was correct. House stepped firmly from behind the chair to the side and physically pulled her to her feet. "Enough. You already checked that pile once just in the minute since I've been here. Come on, let's get going."

She took a deep breath, then yielded. "Okay. How the hell did you manage to walk into Jensen's office with that 2-hour drive alone first? So much time to think about it. You didn't _know_ who he would be then."

He honored her with a straightforward answer. "I was thinking of you." That reached her, and part of the tension relaxed a little. "Really, Lisa, you have much better odds here of landing a good therapist. I picked Jensen based on being out of state and available Saturday. Not much qualification there; I just plain got lucky. We actually have a hand-picked referral here matched to you."

"Right," she said, though she still sounded a little dubious.

"Would you rather see Jensen?" he asked her suddenly. "You know him already."

"No." She definitely tightened up more there. "He . . . I don't want to change anything for you." That wasn't her only reason, he could tell, but the answer was heartfelt just the same. Jensen, again, had been right.

"So let's hit the road." He started for the door, his cane-free hand on her arm propelling her along.

"One thing, Greg." He stopped and looked over at her. "Please speak up. If there's anything . . . I don't know yet, or I'm not seeing fully, speak up. I missed so much last week. I have to put it all out there, for you and the girls." She hated the thought of it even as she said it, but her eyes were unwavering.

He had to admire her courage. He thought of making a joke in reply about her not always inviting him to speak freely in front of people she wanted to impress, but it died on his lips. He couldn't belittle what she was doing. "I did almost chicken out with Jensen," he said suddenly.

She smiled, and her painful tightness eased up a little. "How's his brother doing, by the way?"

"Doing better all the time. And I think the President will be able to keep the big toes; they're starting to look a little better with the necrosis from the others gone. Come on, Lisa." They walked out of her office together.

They took her car, though House drove. She was far too much on edge to; she didn't protest. Traffic wasn't quite warmed up to full rush hour yet, and they made good time to Trenton, easily finding the office building. Once they entered the lobby, Cuddy started surveying the building directory beside the elevator, but House diverted. "Need to make a pit stop first," he said, ducking into the Men's.

Once in the thankfully empty restroom, he pulled out his pill bottles and took an Ativan. He knew that his ultimatum had to come up in this appointment, and he still quaked inside even thinking of that, of breaking the family and walking away from her. Even though he knew now it wouldn't be needed, he would never forget that terrifying necessity of having to make it Saturday morning. But this appointment was for her. He had to keep a handle on himself and couldn't distract her with his own memories and issues. He was still deeply touched that she wanted him here for this first appointment, and that helped balance a little of the past week. He had to be - well, _whatever_ she needed him to be here. Part of him had expected her to reconsider over the weekend as far as wanting him along, though he'd never questioned her decision to agree to therapy. Still, she wanted him. He splashed some cold water on his face and then took a rare long look at himself in the mirror, something he tended to avoid. He looked aging, a little thin, and still slightly tired; he himself could spot the wear and tear from the last week. Of course, there was also the cane, as glaringly obvious to his mind as a literal third leg would have been. This was what she wanted with her today, but she certainly could have chosen otherwise. He straightened up a little, took another deep breath, and then exited to find Cuddy just coming out of the Women's herself.

Dr. Patterson's office had an exterior room with a secretary, like Jensen's, but there the similarity ended. While Cuddy started filling out the basic new patient information form, her handwriting unbelievably precise even when she was tense, House looked around, comparing. This woman was more into contemporary than Jensen was, even while both outer offices were professional. House also deduced that her secretary was disappointed at the tag-on appointment for the day and hoped that she personally wouldn't be kept late. She probably had a date, he decided. One hand crept up briefly for her hair as if wondering how much resuscitation it would need at the end of the work day, and she wasn't wearing a ring.

He looked back down at Cuddy, who was carefully answering every question in excruciating detail, even writing out their full address instead of abbreviating any part of it. "Lisa, you know, you can abbreviate street. They understand that. Or if they don't, we can hit the gong on this one right away and know to go somewhere else." The secretary gave him a startled look before slipping back behind her professional mask with another surreptitious glance at the clock. His tone wasn't the usual supportive one she heard in this waiting room if a patient had somebody with them.

Cuddy responded to it, though. "Be nice, Greg," she accosted him softly, but she did relax slightly into the familiarity.

"Where's the fun of that?" he replied. He kept an eye on both her and the secretary. He knew he couldn't push Cuddy too far right now, and he wouldn't cross that line, just hoped a little light banter would help reassure her, but he also was enjoying watching the secretary pointedly absorbed in other papers on her desk. "By the way, speaking of dates."

Cuddy nearly dropped her pen. "Greg, _what_ are you talking about?"

He let his eyes slide over toward the secretary slightly while he was fully facing Cuddy. "Like I said, speaking of dates, are you doing anything for dinner tonight?"

He had her good and distracted now. "Are you actually asking?" She wasn't sure if he was just tormenting the poor secretary, and why on earth he thought she was thinking of a date, Cuddy had no idea.

"Yes. We missed our usual Friday night while I was working. I thought maybe, since the sitter is taking over from Marina tonight anyway, we might make up for lost time. I had an interesting idea for it. We can do tomorrow if you'd rather, though. But tonight's already disrupted for the girls; saves changing two for them."

"What kind of interesting idea?"

"The kind that's more interesting as a surprise." He reached over and took the pen and clipboard from her, quickly jotting down answers to the remaining patient information questions.

"I . . . let's see, okay? Ask me again in an hour." She wasn't sure how much would be left in her after this ordeal. She watched him, fascinated. "You know my insurance number by memory?"

"Want to double check it?" he challenged.

"No," she conceded. She knew there wasn't any point.

He finished the form, offered it for a proofing, then hauled himself to his feet. The secretary noticed the cane; she had forgotten about it since his arrival in listening to him. House saw _that_ look in her eyes, the one Jensen kept trying to tell him wasn't pity, and he dropped the clipboard on her desk with a slight clatter. "Relax; you just need a quick tune-up, not a total rebuild." She stared after him as he turned away, surprise warring with annoyance.

House had just sat back down on the small couch next to Cuddy when the inner office door opened. Cuddy stiffened up as if hit with a jolt of electricity. So much for the work he had done in the last few minutes to relax her, House thought. He turned with her to get their first reading of Dr. Ruth Patterson, who was exiting with her previous patient.

The woman was _little_. She couldn't have been more than 5 feet 1. That initial impression was fleeting, though, because once you looked at the face, the eyes dominated her physical appearance, and you forgot the height. Her eyes were deep green, and they held both sharp intelligence and humor. Her hair was a medium brown, set in a simple style that obviously was intended for easy maintenance. She wasn't unattractive at all, but without the eyes, she would have been quickly passed over in a crowd as nothing remarkable. Her clothes, like her hair, looked professional enough but not striking nor obsessed over. House and Cuddy both noted the wedding ring on the _right_ hand. Apparently a widow. Cuddy remembered her statement yesterday on the phone that she didn't have much going on this weekend and wondered if there were any children.

The previous patient finished checking out, and Patterson turned to greet them with a smile. "Dr. Cuddy-House. It's good to meet you. And you, Dr. House." They both stood, Cuddy making it up first, of course, but she didn't even take one step forward alone, waiting for House. Patterson picked up the new patient form. "You can go on home, Angela." The secretary murmured her quiet thanks and gathered her purse. "Come on in," Patterson invited moving over to the door of the inner office. Cuddy took a deep breath, and House reached across behind her to rub one supportive hand down her back - and a little lower. She tightened up in silent rebuke, but his touch did push her on into action. She walked into the office with House half a step behind her.

Again, the difference from Jensen struck House strongly. Jensen's office was eclectic, a few different styles of furniture but none of them that modern. The main things you noticed in Jensen's office were the books, of which he had many, the guitar on the wall, and the desk, easily the oldest piece in the room, a genuine antique. Jensen had said once in response to a question from House that it had belonged to his grandfather.

This inner office again was much more modern in style and had less in it, although Jensen's never came across as cluttered, just fully organized. It was smaller than his and more restricted in seating options, two chairs in front of the desk, two others against the wall if needed (all four of those a matched set), and the requisite couch. This place looked designed, with a color scheme and matching furniture, clearly the product of some interior decorating consultant, while Jensen's was assembled, each individual piece of furniture selected for its own comfort as well as to provide a variety of choices. House thought a little longingly of what he considered by now "his" chair with ottoman, not quite as good as the Eames chair but the next best thing. Thinking that maybe he should have brought along a heat patch for today, he sat down in the right-hand chair in front of her desk, and Cuddy sat next to him. She was so upright just now that her back didn't even touch the back of the chair. Patterson sat down and faced them.

"First of all, how would you like me to address you?" she asked. That wasn't the first question Cuddy had anticipated, and it caught her off guard. "It makes a lot of difference with many patients," Patterson continued. "Some prefer the closeness of a first name, some the respect of a bit of distance. Some even change that form after several appointments, as you might on occasion with people as you get to know them. Some don't." House wondered how Jensen managed to sense that - at least with House, he had never asked, but House truly appreciated that respect of title in their interactions. It helped somehow to balance the intensity of their usual topics, providing some stability and the reminder of the one area in which he had no doubts about himself.

Cuddy considered it. "Most of the people I work with still call me Dr. Cuddy. They knew me that way so long, and neither one of us minds it. I'm proud of my full name, but it does get a bit long for constant use. I'd rather not have you call me Lisa. Not now, anyway."

Patterson accepted that without comment, jotting down a note. "How long have you been married, Dr. Cuddy?"

"Two years in August," Cuddy said. She looked over at House with a smile, but Patterson caught the uneasiness behind it.

"Had you been together long before that?" Patterson would have guessed far longer than that, just watching their body language. These two were very attuned to each other, although they were also both quite keyed up at the moment, and there was some tension there, too, with each other and not just with her.

"We've been a couple for two years, four months, but we've known each other quite a while longer."

And took quite a while dancing around it before that, Patterson guessed. "So tell me, why did you decide to seek therapy?" Fairly straight to the chase, House noticed. Jensen came at things more sideways, at least with him - but then again, he had no idea how Jensen approached other people in appointments. Cuddy probably would rather not waste time dancing as long as she was committed to this.

Cuddy tightened up sharply. House reached across even while comparatively analyzing in the back of his mind, and she gripped his hand. "I . . ." She looked down at his hand, then back up at Patterson. "I made a complete mess out of last week, only I didn't realize it, and I wound up hurting my husband and my girls badly." She shook her head, and a fine shimmer appeared in her voice. "And I couldn't even see it."

Patterson looked at her. Those eyes really were remarkable, very bright and alert. They made the whole face come alive. "That's an interesting summary," she said slowly. Emphasis on the personal failure for Cuddy. "Do you mind if I ask Dr. House a few questions, too?"

"Not at all," Cuddy answered.

"What is _your_ summary of why she's here, Dr. House?"

"Last Tuesday night, she was taken hostage briefly at our hospital by someone who wanted to assassinate the President. She handled it very well, tipped us off and kept everybody safe, but that shook her up. It scared her. She didn't want to admit she was scared, so she was . . ." He trailed off. Cuddy bumped his arm and filled in the gap herself.

"So I turned into an overbearing bitch who made the rest of the week hell for you and the girls."

"That wasn't what I was going to say," he insisted. "And I told you Saturday things didn't get that far with the girls. They're already relaxing."

"It got that far with _you_," Cuddy said softly.

Patterson was watching this exchange, absorbing. Definitely tension there, guilt of epic proportions on Cuddy's part, and as for House...she reminded herself which of these was her patient. She had read enough about House when Patrick Chandler was arrested, and a colleague of hers had been in the courtroom the day of the initial hearing and had talked in detail about it afterward, specifically about House's testimony. House had plenty to deal with, past and present, but he had his own psychiatrist, probably Jensen. She hoped Jensen. She would have to resist the temptation for back-seat psychiatry here and talk to him only as touching Cuddy.

She avoided calling House on whatever he was hesitating over there and returned again to Cuddy. "The difference between those two summaries is interesting, Dr. Cuddy. You didn't mention Tuesday night yourself, only your own actions during the week. Why not?"

"It wasn't that much. It was over in 15 minutes, and nobody was hurt. It _shouldn't_ have shaken me up like this," she replied, self-annoyance back in her tone. House rolled his eyes - he'd heard this before - and gave Patterson a look that spoke as clearly as words. _Good luck_.

"How long does an experience have to be to qualify to have a severe effect on somebody?" Patterson asked. Cuddy didn't answer that, and Patterson earned a good bit of respect from House on her next shot. "Tell me, Dr. Cuddy, before Tuesday night, was everything going all right in your life?"

Cuddy nodded immediately. "Everything was under control until then."

Oh boy. Patterson looked at House for a silent second opinion. He gave an apologetic glance to his wife, then looked away. "She's a lifelong control freak who has impossibly high standards for herself, obsesses over any deviation she makes from perfection, and then feels guilty about it. And in the last two years, we've had a _lot_ of severe stressors to deal with on top of just life in general. Most of them my fault. But I've wished at times she'd talk to somebody before now."

Obviously he hadn't mentioned the last wish to Cuddy. She had started to protest on his assessment that most of the stressors were his fault, but she tightened up again at the end. "I . . ."

"I know. You're not the one who couldn't deal with things yourself," he said, obviously quoting.

Cuddy's guilt index jumped by ten. "I can't believe I actually said that to you. I swear, Greg, I didn't mean it."

"Maybe not for me, but you _did_ mean it for you." Patterson could see House's concern there, as well as insecurity underneath it. As an obvious direct quote from the last week to somebody with House's background, even what limited details Patterson knew of it, that _was_ quite a verbal blow. And Cuddy truly hadn't realized that at the time she said it; her guilt now spoke volumes.

Patterson stepped in again, trying to get a better picture here. "Okay, we have a difference of opinion on duration, but the most important thing is, do you agree yourself right now that you need some help?"

"Yes," Cuddy said definitely.

"When did you decide that? What changed from last week when you didn't realize that?"

Both of them jumped there, a bilateral jolt of stress and tension. House was taking deep, controlled breaths, clearly trying to keep a rein on himself for her; he knew some physiological techniques for impending panic that she did not. Cuddy was purely agitated thinking about it, as well as the monumental guilt. "He said. . . Saturday morning, he told me . . ." She was fighting to get the words out. House gripped her hand, but he didn't step in here verbally, leaving her with the field. "He said that he would take our girls and leave me because . . . because I was starting to abuse them." She started crying at the end of that. House reached across and gave her a hug, although he was still extremely wired himself, and she buried her face in his chest. Patterson gave them a few minutes to regain composure, both of them. Cuddy finally broke away, sniffling, and Patterson handed her a few Kleenex.

"Are you going to leave her, Dr. House?"

He shook his head vigorously. "No. She didn't quite . . . I said I'd leave _if_ she didn't get help. But even then, I said we would always be there waiting." He took another few deep breaths, trying so hard to hold it together.

Patterson backed away for the moment. They both needed a break before approaching that ultimatum again; that was even more stressful than the hostage situation. "Dr. Cuddy, I think it would help here to go through the week step by step from Tuesday. Tell me what you think happened, starting from the assassin. Okay?"

Cuddy blew her nose again, then began. "Tuesday night, I was approached by a man in the lobby of the hospital . . ."

_TBC_


	56. AN

A/N: Apologies for leaving it hanging in that session; I really hoped to finish it off quickly, hadn't wanted to leave it there anyway but thought I'd give you that much. But right after finishing writing down that much, I managed to hurt myself. Coordination has never been my strong point. Smacked the living daylights out of myself, came close to knocking myself out, and have had three days straight of constant headache, so I've been laying low and taking it easy, giving myself a chance to heal, not even doing much reading and no writing, although I did appreciate the reviews on introducing Patterson. No headache this morning, the first day this week I haven't had one (unless I touch the bruised and cut area, which is still very sore), and I'm feeling a lot better today, but now I'm heading into a few busy days and am behind of course with work from the week so far. Anyway, **I'll get in the rest of that session as soon as I can, but I'm not sure when**. The story doesn't have much to go.

**The mental files of stories are fine, both the rest of this one and the next one in progress, Verdict, so relax. They will come.** I did wonder at some point the last few days how many people would object if it just ended here due to me unintentionally scrambling myself. Anyway, I'm okay, just a little banged. **More when I get a chance to write it down, and sorry for the wait.**

P.S. Okay, editing, as apparently people are misunderstanding me. Cut me some slack; as stated, I have had a head injury this week.

THIS STORY WILL BE FINISHED. I am NOT sitting here thinking gee, do I want to finish it or not. I'm not trying to decide whether to go on. By my count, there are four separate sentences in those first two paragraphs that contain specific reassurances in so many words that more chapters will be coming; I have just bolded them. It's just that due to injury during the lighter scheduled part of this week, so I couldn't write then as planned, and now due to everything else being behind because of injury, so the next several days aren't looking good, I don't know when. So I was apologizing for/explaining the delay.

What I said was that I did wonder once in the last few days what the reaction would have been if I COULD NOT finish it - not didn't want to, but COULD NOT, because of "unintentionally scrambling myself." In other words, even while hurt, I was also feeling badly that I could have left you all in the lurch on the story, because the rest doesn't exist anywhere except in my head. IF something happened to me and I were UNABLE to finish it, I would feel badly for you guys being stuck on the edge. This was a hypothetical wondering, not a factual one (although the facts were enough with the injury to make me have the thought, just as if you had a close call, you might think, "Wow, if things had gone just a little differently there, I wouldn't have ever been able to do X, Y, Z that I'm intending to"). The intent of the comment, which obviously totally fell flat, was that the writing is important enough to me that even while laid up with a concussion, I thought about the story and about you all out here waiting.

Quitting for now before I give myself my headache back.


	57. Chapter 57

A/N: Here's the rest of the session. I'm feeling better, not quite 100% yet but at least well into the 90s. Onward. Somebody asked about Patterson, if she was a brief addition or something continuing like Jensen. She definitely feels like a continuing character to me, and I can't imagine my muse giving Cuddy one or two sessions and then saying "all better." Compressed instatherapy simply does not work, at least not for long-term issues, which Cuddy, Sam aside, does have a few of, as Patterson is already realizing. I can't count the number of times I heard Mom protest people who want things to just get all better with one or two sessions, and she had several professors in school who had the same complaint from their decades of experience. Anyway, I'm sure Patterson will be around for a while. What I'm not sure of is where exactly we go in this universe after Verdict, although it certainly opens some potential future cans of worms and is much more than just a Patrick story. But it's all up to my muse. I can't suggest things or push her, just have to wait and see what happens.

I am indebted for the closet metaphor to a real-life psychiatrist whom I was typing an extended new-patient note by about a month ago. I thought it was one of the most brilliant illustrations of the therapeutic process and expected results I've ever heard and also thought it would appeal to Cuddy, but I can't take credit for coming up with it. Just borrowing it. :) Enjoy the chapter.

(H/C)

"He looked normal," Cuddy remembered. "The eyes were . . . _odd_ at times once I got more focused, but at surface glance, nothing to grab you. Looked like any visitor to the hospital. He asked if I was in charge and then if he could talk to me for a minute. I invited him to my office." She paused, and the irritation flared up again. "Of all the idiotic moves. I just _let_ him take me hostage. I should have known better."

Patterson stepped in. "What could you have done differently?" Cuddy wasn't expecting that question and was derailed momentarily. "Suppose that when you first laid eyes on him, without him showing a weapon or making any threats yet, you just _sensed_ somehow that he was an assassin. So instead of taking him to your office, you immediately starting shrieking public accusations and calling for security. Do you think he would have just walked away then?"

"No," Cuddy admitted. "The man really was unbalanced. He was totally locked onto the idea of getting to the President; he probably would have pulled out his gun right then."

"And is a shootout in the lobby better than him taking you hostage in your office? I'd think far more people would be at risk that way. Also, people approach you as an administrator all the time; I can't imagine how your first thought logically should have been assassin. How many times have you actually been approached by an assassin in the hospital before?"

Cuddy immediately looked over at House, the worry kicking up. "One. . . well, no, not me. I never saw him myself." She shivered. She had seen _House_ herself, pale and bleeding far too heavily in the ER, bright red life draining out of him.

"Technically, that wasn't an assassin," House protested. "You have to be somebody _big_ to get assassinated or even have it attempted."

"Oh, shut up, Greg. As far as I'm concerned, he counts. I'd rather lose the President than you."

Patterson was fascinated and couldn't resist probing that. The answers you don't expect often go near to the heart of issues. "Somebody attacked Dr. House at the hospital?"

"The husband of a former patient walked into his office and shot him. _Twice_." She shivered again, and House gave her hand a squeeze. "He almost died. One of the bullets severed the jugular vein; if he hadn't been in a hospital already with his team standing right there, he would have bled to death. And other people have attacked him in the hospital; that's just the worst."

"The others were just ticked off," House clarified. "Just a few smacks here and there. They didn't mean to kill me."

"_That one_ meant to kill you," Cuddy insisted, and he was forced to concede that point.

"Dr. House?" He looked away from Cuddy to Patterson. "Why have so many people assaulted you at work?" Patterson had already picked up on the fact that Cuddy was physically worried about her husband, but she had thought it was simply worry inflated by her ordeal, not partially based on a past pattern.

"Because I'm a jerk," he said, as straightforward as if delivering a diagnosis. "Sometimes patients and their families lie to me. _Lots _of times, in fact. Ever noticed that yourself?" Patterson had to smile as she nodded. "Those secrets often play into what's wrong with them. So to help find the diagnosis, I have to cut through the bullshit, only I'm on a lot tighter timetable than a shrink would be. With an infection or disease, you can be talking hours, even _minutes_ making a difference before starting treatment. No time to be gentle with it. They usually don't like me, but they forgive me at the end of the case when the patient gets better."

"What about this shooter? Why did he want to kill you? Did his wife die?"

"No, she lived - at least lived through me. She committed suicide later. But in the course of the differential, I realized he was cheating. I told her. He resented it."

"So he just walked into your office, pulled out a gun, and shot you?"

He nodded. "In front of my whole team."

"Did you suspect anything before he pulled out the gun?"

House recognized the double-back there, something Jensen specialized in, approaching a former topic from another angle. "No," he said firmly. "In fact, when he asked which one I was - hadn't actually met me on the case, just the team - I made a joke about it, then told him to leave appreciation gifts at the front desk. I never thought he was a serious threat."

"So you - somebody who has been several times assaulted, if minorly, at work - didn't immediately think that here was an assassin with a hidden gun?"

"No."

Patterson looked back at Cuddy. "Have you ever encountered someone with a gun before at the hospital, Dr. Cuddy?"

"Not personally, no. There was another one who took him hostage once along with several other people in my office. There was a several-hour standoff."

Patterson was certainly getting her eyes opened on background history today. _Never assume_, she reminded herself. She looked over at House.

"I recognized _him_ as a gunman right away, but that wasn't hard. He already had the gun out and was herding a group into her office; I just happened to be in there at the time for something else. She wasn't there. From what I've heard, he was waiting at the clinic for quite a while before he pulled a weapon, and nobody suspected him."

Her eyes gave him a smile, appreciating being handed that information. House realized what she was doing. "So lots of other people at the hospital spent extended time with that gunman, and none of them realized. So tell me, Dr. Cuddy, if they all didn't know, if your husband with his history didn't suspect the man who shot him, how could you have been expected to know this man's intentions just from his outward appearance Tuesday night?"

Cuddy was reluctant to let the perceived failure pass. "I . . . just feel like I should have."

"Exactly. You _feel_ like you should have in retrospect. Feelings aren't always facts, Dr. Cuddy; be careful convicting yourself based just on feelings. And really, what difference would it have made? If this man was mentally unstable, he might well have gone off right there in public if challenged. Other people could have gotten hurt."

"I actually thought that Tuesday night," Cuddy remembered. "I told him, once he pulled the gun, that the President was on 3 West. I was hoping that even if he shot me, he'd go straight there instead of taking another hostage. The Secret Service was up there; it was the safest place to send him. He really had no chance at all of getting through the security blockade. The President was never in danger."

"That's a very good point. Even Tuesday night, in the middle of that, you were thinking about other people and damage control. You _were_ acting like a responsible administrator. So what else happened in your office?"

Cuddy looked back over at House. "I looked over at a picture of my family on the wall, and he saw me do it. He commented on my family, and he sounded like the whole word left a bad taste in his mouth. Turns out he was the black sheep of his, just because he was a janitor, and none of them had realized over the whole previous year that he was having problems recovering from a head injury." Her eyes flared up. "I met some of his family later in the week. They wanted to buy the hospital off, still not admitting any negligence on their part. They acted like he was something they'd stepped in on the sidewalk. Not just because of Tuesday night; I think they thought of him like that already." She was still looking at House. "That poor man. I actually feel sorry for him."

"He thanked you at the end," House reminded her. "I think his second head injury that night must have somehow relieved the psychotic effects of the first. He was himself at the end."

She took a deep breath. "Yes. His eyes looked totally different there. I think he really was free at the end. Maybe better that he died; he would have had a lot of tests and trials to get through if he'd lived." House flinched slightly on trials, briefly remembering Patrick, and Cuddy felt it and squeezed his hand, her giving comfort that time.

"So what else did he say about family?" Patterson guessed.

Cuddy tightened up even more. "He said that I'd never see my family again." She quickly looked back at House. "So I agreed to take him to the President, which never would have worked, but he really was crazy. And I got one hand in my pocket and called Greg, just leaving the line open. I was talking to Sam, explaining what we'd see when we got off the elevator, asking him to be careful with the gun, giving them as much information as I could without being obvious. Just hoping that the call had gone through; I couldn't take the phone out, of course. We went across the lobby and up to 3 West. And the message had gotten through. The Secret Service was ready, and they shot him, just trying to disable him, but he hit his head hard when he fell. So it was over." She shuddered again, trying to remind herself of that. It was over.

Patterson looked at House. "Do you have anything to add from Tuesday night, Dr. House?"

"She was wonderful. Everybody thought so. She was obviously shaken up, but nobody faulted her for that. But when I took her home, I started noticing . . ." He trailed off himself.

"What?" Cuddy and Patterson asked together.

"She was extremely defensive. She would snap at any suggestion that this had rattled her. At one point, one of my team called to say that the gunman had died in surgery, and he asked how Lisa was. I said she was a little shaken up or something like that, and she nearly bit my head off for it. Couldn't make any suggestion that she was less than 100%. She also _never _said that he had told her she'd never see her family again. The whole week, she never told me that. Not until Saturday morning. That was the first time she ever said that and the first time she admitted that she might have been scared by all of it."

Patterson looked back at Cuddy. "Why didn't you tell your husband that statement, Dr. Cuddy?"

"I guess I just didn't want to think about it. It shouldn't have mattered that much; it's not like he understood family anyway, not like mine. He had no idea what he was talking about. He was just trying to scare me."

"And it worked," Patterson concluded. "Perfectly understandably, I might add." Cuddy looked down at her hands. She _hated_ admitting that. "Were you scared Tuesday night, Dr. Cuddy?" the psychiatrist persisted.

"Yes," Cuddy finally admitted reluctantly.

"Very good." Cuddy looked up in surprise. "One thing about fear; it's impossible to start to deal with it while you are denying it exists. You can go forward now. That's a big step forward. Anything else from Tuesday night that struck you, Dr. House?"

"Just the defensiveness, like I said. I suggested that she take one of my sleeping pills so she wouldn't have nightmares, and she said. . ." House broke off himself there, feeling again the bite of the words.

Cuddy physically jumped, remembering them for the first time herself. "I told you that was your issue, not mine." She shook her head. "Greg, I swear, I didn't mean it. I've been so _awful_ to you all week, but I didn't really mean it."

"I know," he said softly. He didn't add that it had still hurt anyway, but that fact was obvious to everybody in the room.

"Did you have nightmares, Dr. Cuddy?"

"No," she said firmly. "I had one nightmare Wednesday night, when Greg was off at the hospital on a case and I was sleeping alone, but other than that, I haven't had any nightmares this week. I've been sleeping just fine." House shifted slightly, and both of the women looked at him. "What?" Cuddy demanded. "I _have_ been sleeping fine. Other than the one, which I admitted just now."

House spoke up slowly. "From Tuesday night on, she's turned into a Velcro octopus. It's like she's trying to physically capture me. Hard to even shift at all in bed. She did seem to be sleeping much more heavily than usual, if anything, but she was absolutely pinning me down."

Cuddy stared at him. "And that's why you've been having trouble sleeping all week?" He nodded mutely. "I didn't realize, but I did see that every morning, you looked like you hadn't been asleep at all, like you never even got anything until Friday night when you hit empty. Oh, Greg, I am . . ." She froze in horror suddenly. "Friday morning. You had a bad spasm in your leg. That was because of me, wasn't it?" And the sex the night before. She cringed, unable to ask him that in front of Patterson, but if her physical actions just in sleeping had changed that much, she hated to think what sex with her must have been like. "I hurt you. _Physically_. Didn't I?"

House didn't reply. He didn't have to. Cuddy leaned across, closing the small gap between the chairs again. "Greg, I didn't . . . I wasn't even aware of it. I'm so sorry." She wasn't thinking of their reconditioning right then, either, but he kissed her anyway.

"I've tried something different the last two nights," he said once they parted. "I never realized until Saturday morning that she was worried about me. So I've tried just holding her hand, and picking it back up again any time I wake up if we've moved. It seems to help."

"You never realized until Saturday morning that she was worried about you?" Patterson had picked up on that one within the first few minutes in her office. "What did you think the problem was?"

"Just her trying to control things as an overreaction. Tuesday night, she seemed numb - and defensive - but Wednesday morning on, she's been in hypercontrol. Her very first comment to me Wednesday was that I'd turned the clock off, so she woke up eight minutes late. Since then, at the hospital and everywhere else, she's been trying to have everything right under her thumb. She would check up on me every hour at least to make sure I was still doing my job, as she put it. Not nearly that bad with everybody else, but I heard several comments in the halls. A lot of people noticed she was off. The board meeting apparently didn't go well."

Cuddy cringed. "I put in a proposal to limit discussion on any point to two minutes per participant."

Patterson actually laughed. "I must admit, I've been in a few meetings where I would have _loved_ to institute that rule."

Cuddy grinned herself, relaxing a little. "Those meetings are annoying. I wish people would think through things beforehand and be more organized and prepared. But no, they didn't like my plan, and they spent a lot more than two minutes each debating that. And then when they suggested I was just rattled, I bit their heads off for it." She sighed, back on failure. "And yes, I _was_ checking on Greg at least every hour. I didn't realize how that was coming across. I just wanted to see you, to make sure you were safe."

"What is your impression of the rest of the week after Tuesday night, Dr. Cuddy?"

"It's odd, like reading it in a book now. I really didn't realize what I was doing then. But yes, I was trying to control everything at the hospital, and I was terrified that somebody else was going to slip in and attack Greg. I couldn't admit that, though. He's right; anytime anybody suggested that I was off, and a lot of people did, I bit their heads off for it. I did get a picture of the family picture that I could look at no matter where I was, and that helped some. That's what got me through the press conference Wednesday." She looked over at her husband again. "It wasn't that I didn't need you there, Greg. It's that I couldn't ask. But I propped my cell phone on the podium, and I was looking at it several times per answer. That's the only thing that got me through it, although I wish I could have asked you. That would have been even better." She pulled out her cell phone, called up the family picture, and handed it over to him as if offering proof.

"May I see it?" Patterson asked. Cuddy nodded, and House handed the phone across the desk, using the opportunity for a subtle stretch forward in a different direction than twisting to his left toward Cuddy. He was beginning to really wish he'd taken some Vicodin along with Ativan in the restroom immediately before this appointment.

Patterson studied the family, noting not just the faces but the body language. It was a studio shot of House and Cuddy side by side, each holding a girl. They were sitting on something, and House's cane was not in the picture; from this shot, it would be hard to tell he was disabled, although he held the girl in his lap weighted more on the left. That was so subtle that it would have been nearly impossible to spot without knowing about his bad leg otherwise. It could even have been passed off as a random infantile fidget, although the child didn't look fidgety. She was facing the camera, though not with that fixed attention that indicates that the photographer's dangled toy had caught her eye. She was small, almost elfin, but the hair was the chestnut that House's was graying out of, and the eyes were unmistakable. Even more striking was the expression. She was looking at the camera as if wondering how it worked. At the same time, she was leaning back slightly into her father for contact, not for reassurance but as an even-stronger unconscious statement of belonging. Anybody could have seen the biological relationship between those two.

The other girl in Cuddy's lap was older, larger, and that one looked more restrained in mid fidget and was noticing the bait toy. She had darker hair and eyes. The hair was similar to Cuddy's, the eyes totally separate. Again, though, there was no tension in her body toward either of her parents. She just looked a bit impatient with this photo shoot. House and Cuddy tipped just slightly toward each other, their shoulders reaching for the other, although House, like the girl in Cuddy's lap, had just a trace of a "how many more shots left here before we can go do something interesting?" expression. There was pride, too, though, and the pride was stronger. Pride on both parents' faces.

A family. They were unmistakably a family. The psychiatrist felt reassured, her immediate impressions from this session confirmed by the earlier picture. There were definite issues here, more than Cuddy even now was admitting and dating back much further. Also, if House hadn't been in therapy himself, Patterson would have made a strong recommendation for that. Even if she hadn't known some of his past already, she would have guessed by now he was an abuse victim, just watching his reactions and listening to some of his statements today. No doubt he was usually much more guarded; he was trying so hard to be there for Cuddy, but this appointment was pushing him. Above all, the picture as well as watching them now assured the psychiatrist that there was a rock-solid foundation here of mutual support, connection, and friendship to build on. They would, ultimately, be okay, and they would, even where difficult, turn to each other to get through this, not tear each other apart or build additional walls. Patterson handed the phone back to Cuddy. "Tell me about your girls, Dr. Cuddy," she requested.

"Rachel is the older one. She's almost 2 1/2." Cuddy saw the mental calculator click on, registering that Rachel was older than their relationship. "She's adopted. I got her two months before Greg and I became a couple. She was abandoned by her teenaged mother. We never really think of her as adopted anymore, though; she's so much a part of things. Always doing something, full of energy. Just so _alive_." She looked over at her husband, smiling, sharing it with him. "The younger one is Abby. She's 19 months old." She recognized that thought flying by, too. "Yes, she's undersized. I know it looks like there's more age difference than that. Abby was born at 25 weeks. We were all in a bad car accident then. I was pregnant and had internal bleeding, and they were forced to take the baby and do a hysterectomy. She was in the NICU for months, but she made it. She's been just a little slow on some of the physical markers, and she's still undersized for her age, but the mind is fully there, no question. She's much quieter than Rachel, but you can always see the wheels turning." Cuddy had tightened up fiercely on House's hand again, and her voice nearly broke mentioning the car accident. He gave her fingers a reassuringly strong squeeze, reminding her silently that he was alive and well.

"Was Dr. House hurt in the accident?" Patterson asked, already dreading the answer. How many times had the man's life been in danger in the past? It was growing crystal clear why such a strong part of Cuddy's reaction to Tuesday had been physical concern for him, not nearly as far a jump as Patterson had initially suspected.

"Badly. He had a head injury, and nobody at all caught it for a few days because the ER didn't even examine him." Administrative annoyance surged in alongside the remembered fear. "He didn't notice because he was worried about me and Abby. Finally he collapsed and went into seizures right in front of me, and after emergency surgery, he was in a coma for three days." Her voice shook on the memory, and she quickly looked over at him again. "It took him a few months to recover, too. He was all there mentally, but there were some physical effects. He beat them, though." She let him see the pride there.

"I'm starting to see what you mean by a lot of severe stressors, Dr. House. Although I dispute them being your fault. What else has happened in the last few years that was especially stressful?"

House sighed. "Do you know about Patrick Chandler?" Cuddy asked, trying to save him from having to say it.

House jumped in first before Patterson had a chance. "Yes, she does. She'd obviously already heard about me, like most of the rest of America." There was still some bitterness underneath that, the violation of having his private past dumped onto the front pages and the nightly news.

"Yes, I remembered the stories from last fall," Patterson confirmed, trying to keep any possible emotion out of her voice so House wouldn't have anything to misinterpret. "The media also cross-referenced it in the news this week, identifying you as his wife, Dr. Cuddy. They also said the trial starts next month, so I know that will be another stressor for the family."

House closed his eyes briefly. "Hopefully it _ends_ next month, too." Martin had warned him the trial would take several days, that his own testimony would probably take more than one day, but House couldn't imagine a full month of it. Of course, there was the possibility of other subsequent trials, but the other states were waiting nicely in line with an eye toward their own budgets, fully willing to let New Jersey foot the judicial bill if Patrick got life without the possibility of parole. If he got anything less, the next state would file, and they would keep going until he was irrevocably behind bars. Nobody in any state wanted Patrick ever to see daylight again. "And yes, that's another stressor right around the corner. She's had to be there through all of them being the one holding it together."

Patterson wanted to give him some reassurance and sympathy on that subject and on the trial, but he wouldn't have taken it just then. She changed subjects, although she hated the necessity of returning to this particular stressful point. "Saturday morning, you accused Dr. Cuddy of abuse of your girls." Both of them tensed up even more, again reacting strongly physically to that topic, and House flinched in the next second, one hand creeping toward his leg. Cuddy was instantly concerned, even knocked out of the tension of remembering Saturday morning.

"Greg, are you okay?"

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. Cuddy abruptly looked at her watch, realizing just how long they had been sitting there, often with him twisting toward her. The chairs really weren't built for that. He was due for his dinner meds, too. He couldn't take everything without food, but he could at least take the Vicodin. She saw the stubborn glint in his eyes, though, and knew he wouldn't, not in front of Patterson.

Cuddy gave his hand a squeeze and then released it, standing up. "Could we have a break for five minutes? I really need to go to the bathroom."

Patterson stood up immediately. "Of course," she replied. "This has been quite a session, I know. It won't always be this bad; there was just a lot to get on the table." She walked to her office door without waiting or looking back, and Cuddy quickly joined her, leaving House to drag himself to his feet unobserved behind them. Patterson went on to the outer office door and pointed out the restrooms on this floor, then turned away, busying herself with some paperwork on the secretary's desk as the two exited.

Cuddy returned first. "Thanks," she said softly, coming up beside the other woman. "He's overdue for his meds, and he'd been sitting still too long, too. Hopefully he's taking a walk around the bathroom for a few minutes as well as some pills." She hadn't dared suggest it. Giving a rather-obvious opportunity was as far as she could go with him in front of a stranger.

"I understand," Patterson said. "Are you going to bring him to future sessions?" She assumed the future sessions for now; she'd have to pin Cuddy down on commitment to them, but Cuddy didn't need to be pinned down today without House there for support. House was helping Patterson out quite a bit today with information Cuddy didn't have, but she hoped that Cuddy would come alone, too. She had a feeling that some discussions might be more open without House's presence in the future.

Cuddy hesitated. "Probably not. I know this is hard on him. I just needed him with me the first time to get through the door, and I wanted him to realize I'm really trying." She shivered again. "Do you think things are going to be all right with us?" Odd asking somebody she'd known for barely an hour that question, but she was feeling more comfortable with Patterson in person than she had with just the idea of a therapist. The woman seemed both professionally competent and totally unjudging.

"Yes," Patterson said firmly. "You two are going to be okay. But I'm very glad you came for help."

Cuddy took a deep breath and nodded. She moved away for a few leg-stretching circuits of the outer office herself, and nothing further was said until House returned. Cuddy knew better than to ask. He was already annoyed by her asking in front of Patterson if he was okay, and Cuddy realized now that that had been more obvious than her usual pattern. She should have simply requested a break without drawing attention so directly to him. An apology right now would only underline the point; she would tell him later. They returned to the inner office and sat back down, and Patterson looked at House. "What did you notice with the girls last week, Dr. House?"

Cuddy shrank inwardly, although she knew the question had to be asked, and this topic had to be explored thoroughly to Patterson's satisfaction. Any statement like that could not simply be left alone or dismissed as an exaggeration.

"It never got to that level," House assured the psychiatrist. "Even Saturday morning, I just said things were on that road, not fully there yet. The only thing I noticed before Saturday morning was that on Thursday night, I did think Lisa was a little bit sharp correcting Rachel on something. Just verbally. I even pointed that out then. But I . . . I have problems knowing what discipline is." Patterson concealed her own sympathy. House spoke of it almost like a foreign country never visited; he truly had _no_ experience of loving discipline in his own background to compare to.

"I didn't notice anything else until Saturday morning. I walked in early when Abby woke up, and just for a second before she recognized me, she was -" He paused, obviously selecting the word carefully. "She was _uncertain_. Like she needed to be careful to verify what mood Lisa might be in before going on with this encounter. It wasn't fear yet, just the very prelude of it. I did go on after I woke up Rachel and asked them leading questions, without them realizing, of course. I asked what all they had been doing with Lisa while I was gone. It all sounded perfectly harmless and routine. The worst thing from Friday night had apparently been that Lisa got mad at the cat for being a cat and being in the way. I'm positive myself that she never laid a hand on them. It was all just moodiness, and it was _early_. She apologized to them Saturday morning, and they are already relaxing quickly around her." House looked at Patterson directly. "If I still had _any_ doubt myself about this situation, I would step in and take them. They're never going to know what . . . I don't know what discipline is, like I said, but I do know abuse, not just limited to physical. It didn't happen yet, and it's not ever going to happen with them." His hands were trembling by the end of that, but his voice was rock solid.

Patterson nodded. "I believe you. Do you have anything to add there, Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy's hands weren't steady, either. House reached over and captured one of them with his own trembling ones. "I still can't believe that I let myself do that without realizing it. Not that I'm questioning it; that didn't come out right. Once he finally got my attention Saturday morning, I saw what I was doing. I agree it didn't get all the way with them, but he was right to call me on it, and I just wish he'd spoken up earlier."

"I didn't _know_ earlier," House reiterated. "Believe me, the first moment I realized something was going on with the girls, I acted. There wasn't any delay there."

Cuddy looked down at their intertwined hands. "Greg, whatever I did to them, I did ten times as much last week to you. In everything you tried, all the arguments for therapy you made, you never told me that. You had to have realized that I was hurting you a long way before Saturday morning."

He looked away, thinking of Jensen, wondering if she really would have listened, if he could in fact have ended the week sooner. "I . . .I never thought of bringing it up."

That was obviously an honest statement, painfully so. Patterson cringed inwardly and reminded herself again that he was in therapy. In fact, as much as his own issues were obvious at points in this session, his therapy was, too. Nobody of his background could have held it together this well and given such coherent answers to her questions otherwise. Her colleague who had been at the evidentiary hearing had been incredibly impressed with House on the stand. Patterson tossed a mental salute to Jensen, although part of her wondered how House might have wound up with an out-of-state psychiatrist. _None of your business_, she scolded herself firmly. That would be pure curiosity, not relevant to the current session. "When did you first suggest therapy to her, Dr. House?"

"Wednesday afternoon. The nanny called me complaining that Lisa had called her three times that day." He paused slightly on the three, obviously comparing that total to the much-more-frequent checkups on himself. "She wanted to tell Lisa herself she needed help. That would have been a disaster, and we can't afford to lose Marina, so I said I would. I'd already thought of professional therapy, though, even before Marina called; she just gave me a boost to actually bring it up. Lisa didn't think - she didn't agree with me that she had a problem." Cuddy flinched, remembering those words again. She wasn't the one who couldn't deal with things herself. "I tried several other strategies to convince her between then and Saturday, and none of them worked."

Patterson jotted down another note. "Just a few more questions. I appreciate your patience and your honesty here, both of you. I know this is hard. Tell me, Dr. Cuddy, do you have any siblings?"

Cuddy grimaced. "One sister. We aren't on speaking terms."

"Why not?"

House looked down, something else he blamed himself for, but Cuddy's voice was unflinching, just daring Patterson to challenge her reasons on this. "She made several untrue comments about Greg that I refused to stand for. She even pushed it too far with my parents last fall; she tried to cash in personally on some publicity when Patrick Chandler was arrested. They nearly disinherited her."

"Back when you were on speaking terms, how would you describe your relationship?"

"Competitive," Cuddy said in a word. These were far easier than the questions on House, the girls, and the past week, and she responded without pause. She really didn't see anything more significant in the answer, although House did. Patterson could tell from his eyes. Of course, he was the one who had said at first that Cuddy had some long-term issues anyway.

"What are your parents like?"

"Successful. In different ways: Dad is very business oriented, and Mom is perfectly organized in all aspects of her personal life."

"Do you get along with them?"

For the first time on these background questions, Cuddy hesitated. "Better than I used to," she admitted. "We're learning. They both love Greg."

Patterson made another note, then put down her pen. She would dig into background extensively at some future point, just mainly wanted to confirm her impressions in general from today. "Okay. We're almost done for today. The rest is suggestions on treatment. First and most important, though, are you willing to commit to an extended course of therapy? One session or two doesn't work with issues of any extent. It's impossible to be both quick and thorough with psychiatry, and going for quick just leaves some elements still under the rug to continue damaging the patient and the family. For their sake and yours, you need to give us some time. I'd appreciate the opportunity to help you, but this isn't going to be a quick Band-Aid slapped on. You have to understand that up front."

Cuddy sighed. "I'll admit, I was hoping for a fast answer. But yes, whatever it takes." She looked over at House again. "I can't _ever_ hurt my family like this again. I know I'll make mistakes at times, but the ones from this last week shouldn't be repeated."

Patterson smiled at her. "I agree. But as your husband has been saying, it didn't get too far. Everything here is fixable." She studied Dr. Cuddy. "Are you ashamed of the thought of being in therapy?"

"I just -" She sighed again. "I know I need this. But I still think I should have done better."

"May I use your background as an illustration when speaking to her, Dr. House?"

House shrugged. "I'm public domain these days," he said, but his resentment of that fact was clear.

"Maybe to the media but not to me," Patterson insisted. "It was a genuine question."

She saw the startled respect in his eyes. "Yes," he said, and that answer carried none of the shielded irritation of his first comment.

"Dr. Cuddy, do you think your husband should have handled things completely on his own? Do you blame him for getting help?"

"No, of course not. It's amazing he did as well as he did on his own." She shook her head. "I _know_. That sounds like a double standard. What happened to me wasn't nearly as much as what happened to him, though."

"What's the time limit?" Patterson challenged. "At what specific minute or even day does a situation progress from do it yourself to help needed?"

"I don't know. I just . . ."

"You're afraid to be human," House threw in. "News flash, Lisa. You can't help being human. Blame your parents for that one; you were doomed to be human from the beginning."

Cuddy gave a weak smile there. Patterson stepped in and changed the subject, knowing they couldn't fully change Cuddy's perspective today anyway. It was enough for today that she was sincerely agreeing to therapy. They would deal with this - and yes, with a good bit of focus on the parents and her upbringing - in future sessions. "I like to think of therapy as a closet. I'm sure you've never done this yourself, Dr. Cuddy, but have you ever known anyone who just threw things at random into a closet?"

Cuddy nodded. "One of my college roommates did that. Drove me nuts."

"I'll bet you tried to clean out her closet a few times, didn't you? Did that ever last?"

"No. It was hopeless."

"Like I said, I think of therapy as organizing a closet. Take a closet that has things just tossed into it for a good while. Maybe some of them even thrown in there by other people, but it's your closet. So you can try to just keep the door shut and not have to look at it, or you can choose to take control by organizing it. To organize it, you have to take out the things in there, one by one, and look at them, see exactly what they are, study if they could have any use and when. Then you fold them up or straighten them out, whatever works to make each piece neater, and put them back in, only it's all organized now. You find things even take up less space that way placed neatly than all randomly jumbled. You know what each thing is and where it is, and the things you might need something from some day are more at the front, others pushed more back, but none of them are just thrown there. Eventually, it's in order. _That's_ what therapy is. Choosing to organize your closet instead of just keeping the door shut and hoping nobody opens it one day and causes an avalanche."

She was getting Cuddy's attention now, the images of taking control and imposing order resonating as Patterson hoped they would here. "What about throwing some of the things away?" Cuddy asked.

"Unfortunately, that's where the illustration breaks down. We can't just throw away things from our life and our experience, as much as we'd like to sometimes. It's there to be dealt with, the good and the bad, and it isn't going to leave. But we _can_ organize it with everything categorized and the more useful things up front for easier access. That way, you can open the door without an avalanche, and you have it all arranged in a way that makes sense to you." Cuddy liked that thought. "Down to more immediate steps. The fact that this will take a little while doesn't mean we can't prioritize and start working with things today. What is the one thing bothering you most right now as you go through your daily routine?"

Patterson got the answer she expected as Cuddy looked immediately toward her husband. "I'm so worried something will happen to Greg. I start to panic if I can't see him regularly." The annoyance flared up again. "And that's _stupid_."

"Why? It certainly sounds like plenty has happened to him in the past."

Cuddy looked at her. "You're supposed to _help_ me with things here, not agree with them. Isn't that how this therapy thing works?"

"The panic isn't good, but it also is not based on wild imagination or pure paranoia, either. You've had several past dangers involving him." Which you've never acknowledged the effect of on yourself, Patterson added silently, and she still didn't think her list of those experiences was complete yet. It would come. "It makes sense in a way that you would translate the threat of never seeing your family again into fear that something else would happen to him. But tell me, Dr. Cuddy, how do you respond when you feel yourself starting to panic? What's your coping strategy?"

"I get mad at myself," Cuddy answered. House bit back his laugh.

"And how has that been working for you?" Patterson continued.

The shoulders slumped in defeat. "Not that well," Cuddy admitted.

"Exactly. Getting mad at yourself isn't going to do any good at all. I'm going to give you a couple of things today to try to help deal with the panic. First of all, I'm going to write you a prescription for low-dose Ativan at the moment on a routine schedule daily. You can use up to two extras per day p.r.n.; if you need more than that, tell me." Patterson saw the reluctance, but at least Cuddy hadn't outright refused. It probably helped that House was clearly on several meds himself, be they physical or psychotropic, and Cuddy didn't want to toss another unintended barb at him by protesting that she was too strong to need medications to help her deal.

"Panic attacks are a physiological response, Dr. Cuddy. They can be physiologically countered, and that will help us now as we start to work. But you're quite right in thinking that drugs alone aren't the answer. Second, a couple of techniques when you start to panic. Take deep, controlled breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Count them, perfectly even, something like count of 3 in, count of 3 out. Your original idea of last week of carrying the picture on your phone was a good one, a lot better coping strategy than getting annoyed with yourself. Also, try forestalling a panic attack instead of pushing yourself to the limit. If you can only go about an hour without checking on your husband without panicking, why don't you call him just for a quick hello 15 minutes before that? Or look at the picture sooner. Don't push yourself as far as you can go; instead try to take an earlier exit off that road." Patterson looked over at House. "You _do_ realize now that she's physically worried for you, right?"

"Yes," House replied.

"So for the moment, would it bother you to have her call or check in with you more frequently?

"No. I just didn't realize her motives last week. I don't mind now."

Patterson nodded, satisfied. "We've been here an hour and a half, and that's as much as we need to do today." She wrote out the prescription and handed it across the desk to Cuddy, then stood up, not watching House's awkward climb out of the chair. "I'm glad to meet you, Dr. Cuddy. I realize this is difficult, but you're going to be okay. For the future, what time frame would work better with your schedule, mornings or afternoons?"

Cuddy felt utterly drained, although somewhat relieved, too. She had survived the first appointment, and as House had predicted, there were no fatalities. "Afternoon," she requested. "I think I'd rather end the day like this and then go home. Not sure I'd feel like going to work after."

"I have the 4:00 appointment open on Tuesdays and Fridays."

House had to laugh at that one. Patterson looked over at him, her large, bright eyes wanting to share in the joke. "I get shrunk myself on Fridays at 4:00, as long as I'm not working on a tough case. That just seems _symmetrical_ somehow."

Cuddy smiled herself. "Nicely organized, isn't it? Okay, make it Fridays then."

Patterson walked with them to the outer office. House was limping more than when he had entered, which she carefully didn't watch. Cuddy wrote her a check for the copay, and she and House left the office side by side, obviously tired, obviously together. Patterson watched them exit, unable to resist reaching over to brush her wedding ring in memory. Yes, these two would be all right. Still, she had some interesting work ahead with this one, and her mind relished the challenge. She would have to remember to thank Jensen for the referral.


	58. Chapter 58

Cuddy let out a deep breath as the elevator doors closed off the sight of Patterson's office. She felt good in an odd way, relieved that the first step was taken and that she had a professional's confirmation that everything was reparable. But she also felt completely drained, and the assessment that this would have to be a course of therapy was disappointing. She had hoped for just a few sessions, maybe a week or two, dealing with the immediate crisis of last week and then stopping when things started to get better. Still, she had no choice but to go through with all of it; her family deserved that. She _wanted_ to get everything that had hurt them dealt with. She just hadn't quite expected dealing with everything to have this anticipated time frame.

But it was a start, at least. She looked over at House. He looked utterly exhausted himself, but he was smiling at her. "It's hard, but like I said, I haven't died yet in an appointment."

She returned the smile. "I know. That wasn't quite what I expected somehow. I liked her, though."

He nodded. "She's good." The elevator door opened, and he stepped out, trying to hide the flinch. His leg was resenting all the twisting somewhat sideways in that session, trying to support Cuddy. "So, Lisa, you said to ask you afterward. Feel like having a date tonight, or should we put it on tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," she replied firmly, watching him. He had been through Jensen today, too, and that couldn't have been an easy session, even with the familiar established relationship now. Two packed sessions in one day on top of the fact that there were still some physical residuals from the stress of last week clearly had pushed him, and his leg was giving him hell besides. She was wondering right now if he was safe to drive home. He heard the shielded concern in her voice and looked over to catch her eyes on him. "Greg, I'm worn out myself," she said quickly. "I really don't feel like doing anything except going home. I think we _both_ would be better able to enjoy whatever your surprise is tomorrow night. Okay?"

He ran the differential, studying her. She obviously wasn't lying about being exhausted, though, and he knew what he felt like, even if he didn't want to admit it outright. She was right. He probably wasn't up to his plans tonight, and neither was she. "Tomorrow, then," he conceded.

She reached over and took his left hand, a silent promise toward tomorrow, and his head picked up a little. "I'm looking forward to it. I like your surprises - usually," she qualified. "The personal ones, not always the ones at the hospital. But this is a personal one. Right?" He chuckled and squeezed her hand.

Together they walked across the deserted lobby and out to the waiting car. Cuddy moved around to the driver's side, trying not to actually say it, and he hesitated briefly, then got into the passenger's seat without comment. "We need to stop at a pharmacy, too," she said, her mind even when tired automatically forming an agenda with numbered points. "And then there's dinner. By the time we get through the pharmacy and drive back to Princeton, the girls will already be in bed. We either need to pick up something to eat on the way or have something quick and easy once we get there." She started the car.

"Relax, Lisa. I'm sure we'll manage to eat somehow without a full battle plan." She didn't look convinced, and House gave her an opinion, knowing she wouldn't leave it without one. "Let's pick up some Chinese."

"That sounds good." She pulled out onto the road. "Thanks for coming with me, Greg. I know that session wasn't easy for you, but it really helped to have you there the first time. I'll probably go alone now, but I'm glad you were there today." She looked over at him at a stoplight. "And I apologize for asking if you were okay in front of her. I should have just asked for a break."

"She was already wondering herself," he replied, simultaneously dismissing the apology and appreciating it. "She was _watching_ me."

"Maybe we can take a soak in the hot tub later after we eat. I'm tired and achy myself." That wasn't a lie. Her shoulders had been too tense during this whole day and were hurting now from release. She rotated them, trying to relieve the muscles.

Between the drive, the pharmacy to fill her prescription, and then a wait at the Chinese place, it was nearly an hour later when they arrived home. Cuddy hit the garage door opener as she pulled into the driveway. "I vote we don't go _anywhere_ else tonight. This day is officially over."

He smiled in agreement. "It's definitely been long enough." She got out and waited in front of the car for him to join her instead of watching his stiff exit, but the still incomplete project of the garage pressed in on her. She picked up one item, refiled it, and studied the remainder undone, glad that Patterson had likened therapy to reorganizing a closet, not a full double garage. She had only herself to blame for this jumble, though. She selected another piece, considering.

"Nope," House spoke up firmly at her elbow. "You just agreed that this day is over, and that includes the garage. It can wait. Furthermore, we need to eat." He rustled the bag of takeout in his left hand as a reminder. "We'll finish this together at some point that isn't today. Maybe next weekend." She turned toward him to protest that much of a delay - okay, maybe not tonight, but it really needed to be done before next weekend. His attention sharpened suddenly, captured by the long, flat box she was currently holding. "What's that?"

Cuddy looked down. She had unconsciously picked out of the mess the box that she had been hiding in the garage, the one containing the therapeutic piano bench cushion that she was still debating about giving him for his birthday. She definitely hadn't meant to pick the thing up right in front of him. Before her garage demolition, it had been well concealed. "Nothing," she lied quickly. She tossed it onto the nearest pile like a hot potato. "You're right, we need to eat, and this can definitely wait. Come on."

The tension back in her shoulders, she headed for the door into the house, seizing his left wrist and dragging him gently along with her. Mental note to self: Once he's asleep tonight, get back out here to hide it again. She had thought of that gift a few times today, gnawing that bone in turn along with all the others in her current feast. Her latest idea under consideration was to _not_ give it to him for his birthday, to completely divorce this touchy gift from that date so that any negative effect would just be general and not added onto the bad memories already attached to the day. The monster truck rally tickets, which she knew he would love, could stand alone for his birthday and would be good reconditioning. But definitely, tonight wasn't an appropriate alternative time with both of them worn this thin and his leg hurting so much anyway. He couldn't help but take it as a personal slight tonight.

House followed her, still looking back. Definitely not nothing, but the added guilt that had infused her on realizing what she held made it clear that this was not some innocent birthday surprise, either. Not a trace of playful cat-and-mouse in her. Even more, what had caught his attention in the first place was the return address on the box. He had recognized the name, a well-known distributor of adaptive rehabilitation equipment designed by one of the most brilliant and highly regarded experts in that field in the country. House had just seen an article a few weeks ago by him in the New England Journal of Medicine on new advances in prostheses.

What on earth would Cuddy be doing with a guilt-inspiring box from him that she was hiding? Her comment from last night suddenly resonated in his memory. He had caught her unmistakably watching his stride and analyzing it after he got up from the piano, and she had said he'd understand in a week. _Was_ she in fact getting him a new leg for his birthday? Had she ordered a generic, not-yet-customized prosthesis from that lab just to show off its features as a live exhibit of how much better life could be if he'd only have the damn thing cut off and get a robotic leg?

No, he told himself. She wouldn't do that. Somewhat to his surprise, he realized that he really believed it, dismissing that possibility firmly without further worry. She _would not_ do that, not take something like an artificial leg, wrap it up with ribbons and a bow, and hand it to him as a birthday gift. She wasn't that cruel. She was planning something, though, and it involved his leg somehow. He thought of sneaking back out to the garage later to investigate, but whatever was in the box wouldn't answer his main question. Did she ever remember what he used to be with regrets that she couldn't have that husband instead? He sighed.

Cuddy, right at the door now, looked over at him. "Are you okay, Greg?"

"Fine," he lied, completing the mirror exchange to the one earlier in Patterson's office. "Just tired. Come on, we need to eat, like you said, and the hot tub does sound good."

Together, they opened the door and went into their house.


	59. Chapter 59

To Mom, who had many a conversation with George Washington in her time. :) Thanks for the reviews.

Next chapter: House and Cuddy finish out their evening.

(H/C)

Jensen stood looking out the hospital window, watching the traffic in the city below. It had just gotten dark, and the twin snakes of lights, white and red, wound their patterns out on the roads. He remembered as a child being fascinated with traffic at night, so much more interesting looking than in the daytime. He had even sometimes constructed imaginary scenarios while traveling in a car or at other interim moments, at first games in which the red and white snakes were outsized serpents which must be slain on a heroic quest. Then more often as he got older and read more, he made situations in which he was in a car with some long-dead historical figure like George Washington or Queen Victoria and had to try to explain what cars were and how they worked, the principles of electric lights, and other various technological advances visible along the route.

He wondered what the Father of the Country would have thought of this hospital.

He turned away from the window to study the room, the medical equipment impressive even in the downscaled non-ICU version, and tried to see it through the eyes of a different century, but tonight, the old childhood game wasn't working. There was a book on the bedside table, but it had been abandoned almost an hour ago. Jensen walked a restless path from the window to the door, looked at his watch, then returned to the window, wishing that Mark were awake right now. That was a purely selfish thought, he chided himself; his brother was improving but still had no stamina at all and needed the healing rest. With efforts at self-distraction falling flat, Jensen returned to considering the cause for his restlessness tonight.

He couldn't help wondering about House and how the rest of his day had gone. _You're as bad as James_, he scolded himself, but he knew that if House had been here now or had called him, he wouldn't have gone detail fishing unless the other man absolutely insisted on giving them. Jensen was under no illusions how hard Cuddy's first session would have been for House, including no doubt going over the whole last week up to his ultimatum in excruciating detail. He also knew that House still wasn't fully recovered physically from last week and that his own session with him this morning had been a tough one, though needed. Having that session first before Cuddy's on the same day was better than not having it before hers, but ideally, House could have used a few more days for bodily recuperation before diving into cleanup operations. Cuddy, on the other hand, needed to start as soon as possible, and her need trumped his at the moment. He had to be exhausted mentally and physically tonight.

No, Jensen didn't want the details. They would keep. He just wished he knew that House was okay, that he had survived the afternoon and emerged upright if battered at the end of it. Five seconds on any subject whatsoever, just hearing him, would have been enough to satisfy Jensen for tonight.

_You know he made it_, Jensen lectured. _He made it like he's made it through everything else, battered and scarred up but getting through it. If something really had happened to him for some reason, if he really needed to talk to you urgently, you would have gotten a call from either him or Dr. Cuddy. No call; ergo, he's okay. He has better things to do than calling to check in when you actually don't want to make him talk to you tonight anyway. _

But as he'd told House many times, knowing something logically doesn't have much effect on feelings. Jensen switched back to efforts at distraction, pulling out his cell phone. He'd call Melissa now instead of later, maybe talk to Cathy about tigers, too. They were probably home or at least getting close, depending on when they left Philadelphia. He started to dial, then stopped in relief, turning back toward the bed. Mark, who had conked out again after the effort of eating dinner, was starting to wake up.

It was still a somewhat laborious climb back, but finally Mark's eyes opened. He smiled at his brother, who was right by the bed, then looked around the room in a quick, silent inventory.

"Pam went to get a shower and sleep for a while," Jensen explained. "She'll be back after midnight, same as last night." He and Pam were splitting the night into two shifts.

Mark sighed. "You don't have to have somebody here all the time. I'm not going to die, Michael."

The words were a little too close to last week for comfort, but Jensen forced his tone to be light, half-joking, half-serious. "I'm not worried about you dying, not now, at least. I'm worried about you staging an escape."

"Kind of hard to stage one without pants," Mark pointed out. "I'd be pretty obvious on the highway back to New York. I can just see myself stopping at a gas station."

Jensen laughed, pulled into the image. He knew that his brother was aware of his uneasy mood at the moment and was trying to distract him. It helped. "Let's see: No shirt, no shoes, no service. Come to think of it, pants aren't specifically mentioned in that."

"No shoes either at the moment," Mark pointed out. "So even if they'd qualify this as a shirt, they'd refuse to sell to me, and I haven't got enough gas in the tank to make it clear back to Albany. Guess I'm stuck here for now." His tone was wistful talking about Albany, though. He pushed the sheet down and slowly sat up, a definite effort, and started to unhook the monitor wires he was still on. Jensen closed in, firmly distracted now.

"Just where do you think you're going?"

"To the bathroom. That's enough of a trip at the moment. Let me celebrate what progress I've got, Michael." They had pulled the catheter that afternoon. The temporary pacemaker was also completely switched off now, though still quickly available. Mark stood up a little shakily just as the nurse arrived at the door.

"You're supposed to hit the button," she scolded. "And you definitely aren't supposed to unplug yourself."

Mark already had his brother on one side and the IV pole on the other. "I had help here already. There was no point in bothering you all; you're busy." He slowly started the walk across the room, using the added supports.

"There is a point in bothering me. It's called an incident report. If something happens to you on my shift, guess who gets stuck documenting it?" The nurse silently wondered at the similarity between Dr. House and some of his patients. Of course, there were differences, too. Thankfully, there was only one House. Mark was never rude, thanking the nurses for their care, but he was also as stubborn as a mule once you got past the polite exterior. He wouldn't get overtly upset with staff, but he wouldn't yield easily, either. He had been a popular patient both in the ICU and on this floor today because of the nurses wanting to observe that anomaly. Most difficult patients got more vocal and put more spark into the course of being difficult. Of course, there was also the fascination for the staff of simply seeing the two brothers together, which even with Mark pale, shaky, and having lost weight this past week was a startling experience.

She followed them to the bathroom, supervising the trek carefully, and Jensen gave her a backward apologetic glance. Once that mission was accomplished and Mark was back in bed, she reattached the monitors and studied his rhythm for a minute. His heart was just a little uneven at first on the stress of the walk but not too much and settled back down quickly. "You really don't need to be getting up without supervision yet," she insisted. "And by supervision, I mean somebody who works here."

"I'm sorry," Mark apologized innocently, and she rolled her eyes and left the room.

Jensen shook his head. "Behave, Mark. We're definitely hitting the button next time."

"Seriously, I am feeling better, Michael. I'll be okay." Mark looked at him, and Jensen could see the analysis in progress. His brother didn't ask what was on his mind, though. He probably could have guessed, at least as to person even if he didn't know the relevant details. Mark had never mentioned it, but Jensen knew that there was no way the psychiatrist-patient relationship between him and House wasn't known to his brother at this point. Mark couldn't possibly still believe House was just a professional acquaintance who had saved Cathy.

At that moment, Jensen's cell phone chirped, a text arriving, and he pounced on it like a cat, snatching it out of his pocket in a movement far more abrupt than his usual smooth coordination. It was indeed from House. _If you and Mark get bored, there's a chess set in my office._

Jensen read that four times over, weighing it, building that chord carefully note by note. For House to contact him at all tonight couldn't simply be indulging Jensen's predictable curiosity whether he'd survived the afternoon, and House definitely wouldn't be just making small talk with no further motive. On the other hand, he didn't want to talk, not even briefly, or he would have called. No, House apparently only wanted to make sure he was still there, deriving some comfort from that fact just as Jensen was relieved by the same message. House was stressed, tired, unsure about certain events of today, and wanted some unspoken reassurance, but he didn't want to get into things. Details could wait. Jensen typed out a response. _Thanks. Not sure he's got the energy yet, but will take you up on that tomorrow. Good night. _He debated briefly about his not-so-subliminal suggestion on the end of that, whether that was direct enough to get House's back up, but he finally left it there and hit send. He looked back up to face Mark's unmistakable analysis of that whole exchange. His brother was trying to respect confidentiality, but he had to be going stir crazy by this point himself and couldn't resist the topic completely.

"He means a lot to you, doesn't he?" Mark asked softly. Not really a question.

"Yes," Jensen said, leaving it at that. The cell phone chirped again, and he looked down. _Night._ All House had wanted was the briefest touching of base, knowing he was at the other end. Jensen relaxed. It was enough for him tonight, too.

Mark looked toward the window, then back, facing his brother directly as he said it. "He's done a lot for us, I know. But be careful that he doesn't get to mean _too_ much to you." It was a gentle, almost apologetic reminder, but the unspoken background was in both of their minds. That had been Jensen's old mistake and had cost him his marriage, years of getting too consumed in his work, taking every patient personally and becoming far too involved in their lives.

"I . . ." Jensen started an automatic statement of the differences between this and the past, then just left it. "It's not like that. But thanks."

Mark chuckled. "In other words, buzz off."

Jensen laughed himself. He studied Mark, but he really didn't think he was up to chess yet. His eyelids were already drooping a little. Walking to the bathroom and back had worn him out again. "Relax, big brother. I'm okay, and so is Melissa. Do you remember trying to explain modern life to George Washington when we were kids?" The game had been mutual, even if usually played individually and not as a team.

Mark nodded, not asking why Jensen had thought of that old time-passer tonight. "Wonder what he would have made of the hospital? I'll bet he'd get tired of just lying around doing nothing, too. Plantations to supervise, horses to ride, wars to win. Too many other things piling up to do."

"Not to mention being president, not that even George did all those at the same time. I wonder what our current one thinks of this hospital."

"I'll bet he has places he'd rather be, too," Mark stated sympathetically. Jensen's cell phone rang, and that time, it was Melissa, reporting that they had just gotten home. Jensen squeezed his brother's arm, then leaned back in the bedside chair, launching into a conversation with his wife but keeping his voice down. Long before Cathy got on the line, Mark was asleep again.


	60. Chapter 60

Dinner had been _odd_. House found himself struggling to identify the feeling, categorize it, but it wouldn't quite fit in any mental box. He was worn out, in pain, and was positive that Cuddy was keeping something from him about which she felt guilty, something involving his leg - and yet he did not believe the worst case scenario he could think of. Even if she did sometimes wish for his former self, he knew that she would not actually give him an artificial leg for his birthday. He believed that so firmly that his mind was trying to analyze why he believed it, and the most concrete answer he could come up with was that she wouldn't do something like that.

His logical self promptly questioned that as evidence, and the non logical self he was slowly admitting under Jensen's coaching that he had told his logical self to shut up. On this, he trusted her. It absolutely was not a new leg. Even after last week, even uncertain quite how she felt now about his current leg, he trusted her for that. Still, he couldn't help wondering which of his non worst-case scenarios that box might contain, and he was seriously weighing the chances of sneaking back out to the garage tonight. His curiosity wasn't as tired as the rest of him.

Then, of course, there was the pride in how Cuddy had done her best at the appointment, had truly wanted to get it all out on the table even while still misunderstanding how much all there was. She loved her family. He had no question of that, either. He did sometimes wonder if she might have loved that uncrippled version more, but he knew that she loved him and the girls. As he'd told Patterson, he had wished through the past few years that she had someone to talk to like he had Jensen, someone to support her and help her in ways that he couldn't. He wished this weren't the way she had to get there, but he was glad of the result. Therapy with a talented professional helped. He regretted that he hadn't gone sooner himself.

He looked over at her now, finding her eyes on him. They had been eating mostly in silence, but it wasn't a tense silence. An unfinished silence, maybe, but not a tense one. Okay, not all questions were answered, but they still both knew they had each other in spite of that. Right now, Cuddy was obviously taking her own pain reading, and she quickly spoke up when he met her eyes. "Maybe later this week, you can get back to the piano lessons with the girls," she commented. She was trying to avoid serious subjects during the meal, but now as she scrambled for a casual one, the topic of the piano jumped in there, crossing over from her firm mental reminders to rehide that box.

To her surprise, House tensed up more at the remark, a new dose of tension infusing him, and his chewing hesitated for a moment. He remembered himself in mid bite and forced the rest of it down. "Yeah," he said softly.

Bewildered, Cuddy made a mental note to strike that one as an eating topic for the moment. Odd. Music was usually a calming thought for him, even with the challenge currently of how on earth to handle Rachel. That should have been balanced out by the pride in Abby; it shouldn't have cast a shadow over the entire topic of music. "So do you think little Daniel is going to be all right?" she tried, switching into medicine.

Much better. He relaxed on that. "Yes. He'll be home and keeping them up at night in no time."

"Maybe he'll be a quiet baby. Abby is, you know."

He shook his head firmly and grinned at her. "Wilson's kid? Quiet? You've got to be kidding. He won't be able to shut up. I can just see him now lecturing the rest of the kindergarten, hands on hips, miniature tie in place."

Cuddy laughed. "That will give the girls somebody to play with, too. I'm sure they'll all be friends."

House's grin softened into a smile. "Probably. He gets that gene, too, along with the lecture one."

"Don't forget, he's got Sandra in there, too." She finished her Chinese and obsessively collected the container and the original sack, throwing them away neatly. Belle materialized next to House's chair, and he dropped half of his last bite of chicken, which the cat deftly snapped up on cue while Cuddy's back was turned. Cuddy returned to the table, reaching tentatively for his container. "Are you done, Greg?"

"Yes." He pushed the empty box toward her and heaved himself to his feet. Cuddy tried not to watch, but she couldn't help it, and House felt her eyes. Hell, even the _cat_ watched him get up. He had taken a full round of everything with the food and wished it would hurry up down there.

"Let's run the hot tub," she proposed. "I'm worn out, too. It sounds like the perfect end for today."

He couldn't argue with that. Together they went into the big bathroom, and House was just reaching for the faucet when a low murmur was heard from the nursery. He stopped immediately, and Cuddy reached around him, turning the tub on herself. "Go ahead and get in, Greg. I'll check on them." She left, pulling the bathroom door shut behind her. She probably didn't want to disturb the girls with the sound of running water - but he was still standing in the middle of the floor listening intently a few minutes later as her footsteps padded on careful tiptoe past the door again and on down the hall.

House sat down on the toilet with a sigh. She was heading back out to the garage, taking the opportunity to go hide the mystery box. He could catch her in the act and challenge her. He could hunt the box down again later tonight, the new location ramping up the game. Only it wasn't a game, even though part of him tried desperately to treat it as one. He ran a hand down his leg, feeling the scar, the imperfection, the mutilated muscles beneath his fingers. He would never again feel what he had been. She wouldn't, either. That chapter was irrevocably closed.

The box did not contain a leg, though. That conviction was unwavering. So what could it be from that medical supply company with that degree of guilt attached? What else did they make besides prosthetics? All sorts of rehab equipment, he knew. Maybe it was some sort of mechanism that he could exercise with. Maybe, while she wouldn't ever give him an artificial leg, she wanted him to work harder at improving the one he had. Couldn't be too fragile, not the way she had tossed it. Exercise stuff was made to take a beating. The shape didn't seem big enough, but something disassembled could be deceptive, and there were exercise aids that were not large nor that heavy. House stood back up, but he didn't go out to the garage to confront her. Instead he walked over, checked the filling water, and then started to undress. He tried to distract himself with mental medicine, but all of the cases somehow wound up involving legs, and when he took off his pants and felt the weight of his cell phone in the pocket, he suddenly sat back down on the toilet and whipped off a perfectly casual text to Jensen. He didn't really want to talk to him, didn't have the energy to talk to him, but just the thought of the psychiatrist was comforting, and House was tired of chasing his thoughts in circles, tired mentally and emotionally as well as physically. He just wanted to take a soak with his wife and then go to bed, but she was out in the garage first, hiding boxes from famous rehabilitation experts.

Jensen answered promptly. _Thanks. Not sure he's got the energy yet, but will take you up on that tomorrow. Good night._ House grinned, hearing the pointed suggestion of those last two words and somehow not resenting it. Jensen could have said far more - such as that House himself knew that Mark wasn't up to chess quite yet - but he hadn't. He was just there. The thought helped steady House and calm the carousel of his thoughts a little. He sent back a quick text, a single word in reply, then finished taking his clothes off. The hot tub was full now, steaming invitingly, and he shut the water off, then climbed over the side. He settled down with just his face above water and felt the heat work its magic as his leg finally started to feel better. He wondered again what she was doing in the garage, but he remained convinced that at least it didn't involve a new leg.

(H/C)

Cuddy's errand in the garage took longer than she had anticipated, as finding a new hiding place beyond his presumed efforts at investigation was a challenge. She hoped he wouldn't go check on the girls himself, but his leg was hurting so much that she thought he wouldn't be able to resist the lure of the hot water. If he hadn't come out to join her immediately, while she was still in the nursery, he wouldn't. Besides, both of them going into the nursery would be more likely to irrevocably wake up the girls. He probably thought that she was rocking one of them. Not that they had really woken up anyway; Rachel had just been dreaming about something. Cuddy had stood for a minute watching her, but all had been quiet, and the bathroom door was still closed with the water running as she tiptoed back down the hall.

Hurry _up_, she scolded herself. She finally accepted her latest candidate for a new hiding place, put the box in the prepared hole for it, and started to recover it - then froze, her eyes widening.

The return address.

_Damn_. She replayed the earlier moment in the garage several times, watching as if in a home movie House speak to her, her turn toward him with the box in her arms to reply, and his attention abruptly sharpen on it. Not just general curiosity but something specifically catching his eye.

He had been looking at the return address, which had been on the nearest corner to him on her turn and which even helpfully had the company logo. She was positive now that his focus had been on that address. And that changed the whole picture, because she was sure House had heard of that company name and had immediately run it through the Google of his mind, plugging in their products. He had to know the associated doctor and his research, had to know this place sold rehab equipment. He hadn't challenged her obvious lie and deflection, and that also spoke volumes in retrospect. House would never just leave a puzzle alone, and she hadn't exactly been subtle. Totally out of character for him to accept her lie. No, the only reason not to push on right there for an answer was that he thought he already knew one. Furthermore, Cuddy was sure that whatever he thought the box contained, it had to be worse than the actuality. Every minute he was in the dark now, that misconception would be growing like a mushroom.

No matter how tired either of them was, she couldn't afford to delay the truth on this tonight. The box was already out of the garage, so to speak. Her only option was to stop his imagination with the fact before even more damage was done. With a sigh, she extracted the box once again and carried it into the house. She put it down on the couch, leaving it up to him to open it and put it on the piano bench later - or not. She would tell him first while they were in the hot tub, working out a few kinks both physically and relationally, and then he could decide what to do with it. The monster truck tickets would be for his birthday. This would just be for him.

She took one more quick glance at the girls, then entered the bathroom, leaving the door open this time. They could hear the girls if needed that way, and drafts weren't much of an issue in June. He was already in the tub, sunk down with his eyes closed, although she knew he wasn't asleep. A few of the lines of pain had smoothed out, but he still looked tense and tired. "Are the girls okay?" he asked.

"Yes. They didn't really wake up; Rachel was just dreaming about something. Not a bad dream. I think she was trying to catch it." He smiled a bit on that, but his eyes were still closed. Cuddy started to undress. "I went back out to the garage after that."

That brought his eyes open in a hurry. "To hide the box full of nothing?" he asked.

She finished undressing, nervous about this, although she also appreciated his eyes on her. "It's not full of nothing," she admitted, sliding into the hot tub next to him. Oh, that _did_ feel good. She settled down a bit, letting the water hit her sore shoulders. "I meant to give it to you for your birthday, but I was already rethinking that anyway, and then I just now realized you must have seen the return address earlier." He nodded. "You know what they make, don't you?"

"Fake legs," he said bluntly.

She sat back up out of the water, horrified. "It's not . . . Greg, I swear, I would _never _give you an artificial leg, not for any day."

"I know," he said. He sounded oddly sure on that, and she studied him, weighing his sincerity. "Seriously, Lisa. That was my first option, but I then realized you wouldn't do that to me."

She settled back a little, but she was still quivering inside at the caliber of that dodged bullet. "So what did you think it was?"

He couldn't say it, not until he knew whether he was right. "You first," he insisted. "What is it?"

"It's a piano bench cover." She was watching his expression intently, trying to weigh his reaction. "A therapeutic cushion. It's made out of the same stuff they make memory foam mattresses out of, and he designed it to help relieve pressure on the legs. It's not obvious. I got it covered in black so it would match. I thought maybe it would help you be able to play more comfortably." She trailed off, still trying to analyze his response. Relief, certainly, but not simple acceptance. She babbled on nervously, trying to explain, waiting for him to say something, anything. "I was going to give you that for your birthday, and then I got to worrying, because I didn't want anything negative added to that day. You already had enough bad memories from it, and if you didn't like this . . . but I really do think it might help. I'm only trying to help, Greg. I hate seeing you hurting. So then I was wondering today about just giving it to you on any old day, but I really didn't mean to pick it up tonight in front of you. That isn't how I planned this. It's in the living room; you can see it - if you want to. It's got straps, so it just fastens around the bench. It won't be permanently attached."

He finally spoke up. "That means you still have something else for my birthday. Something with no possible negatives attached."

She smiled weakly, but there was worry behind it. He had dodged, something he did to put off emotions for processing later when they were getting too intense. "I might have, but you can wait for that. What did you think it was, Greg?" she asked.

He sighed and looked away, but he gave her the honor of returning to the main subject. "I thought maybe it was some sort of exercise device so I could work on getting better."

She honed in on the last half of that statement. "So you could work on getting better? But you _have_. Greg, I don't want this to come out wrong, but I _know_ you're not going to get better. I wish you could, more than anything, for your sake, but I don't think it's because you just haven't applied yourself."

"You used to," he shot back.

She flinched as that diagnosis rang true. "Yes, I _used_ to. I didn't realize all those years just how much it bothered you." And why hadn't she? If she had opened her eyes and really looked at him, if she had truly read the original surgeon's notes, there would have been no question that his pain and disability were both real and permanent. It was really amazing medically that he could walk at all with that much of the quad missing, and all the PT in the world wouldn't regrow the hole.

He actually had had PT on several occasions, including an extended course after they got together, lasting from his sprained ankle well into the following year. He had stuck with it diligently that time, determined to work on the leg and not just his ankle or the muscle bruises from the car accident that entered the picture later. He had been trying so hard to be better for his family. He had worked it to a plateau but had grimly kept on, determined to break through, actually overdoing it in his effort the longer he got no return. The physical therapist had finally told him flat out that the leg was as good as it was ever going to get and that no more progress was being made. House had walked out and spent a whole evening playing Wagner, though he did go home where once he would have headed for the nearest bar. He still did simple stretching and range of motion exercises since then, but he had never gone back to PT nor talked about it. Cuddy only knew the details by reading the chart note of the last appointment the next day, something that sent her up to the roof for a good cry afterward. "Greg, I don't think . . . I'm sorry." Tears were welling up now. "I'm so sorry."

He was fighting annoyance at the reminder of his prognosis, but even though the word choice was unintentional, the new reconditioning had been worked on too much to be ignored. Both of them stopped in mid reaction, briefly mutually postponing the inevitable, and then they came together. When their lips parted a minute later, she kept her arms around him still. "I'm not judging you. I just thought this might help. I don't want you to be hurting any more than you have to if there's anything we could do to help part of that."

He still looked uncertain, but he also looked bone tired. He really didn't have the reserves left to dig through this subject tonight, she realized, and he obviously came to the same conclusion. "You're not going to tell me what the other present is?"

This time, she let him dodge. "Yes. On your birthday." He looked away, faking a pout, and she laughed, feeling herself relax a little. She still wasn't totally sure of his reaction, but she was very sure after talking to him that ending speculation tonight was the right move. She leaned down into the water again, relishing the last caress of the heat before she would get back out, and he reached over, massaging her shoulders underwater. She settled back into his touch. "You could take out a license for this, Greg. You'd be turning away clients."

"Just applied medical knowledge. It helps knowing the exact anatomy." He worked out another sore point, and she tensed up, then relaxed as it released. "Besides, I'm already turning away clients. If I took all the consultations I get, we'd have the whole hospital full."

Her expression changed. "Just please don't ever take on three at once again. This last week was too much." She only realized the double meaning after she said it, her guilty start coming a little late.

"Right. It was too much," he agreed. "But it's over, and you did great today." He released her and started his awkward climb out. "Well, let's go see this invention. I didn't know he did piano bench cushions."

They walked into the living room a few minutes later, both in their robes. The box was still on the couch. "You didn't open it," House noted.

"No. It's your choice; I would never take that away from you. You don't have to use it."

He ripped open the box, breaking the tape just through strength, as if proving to her that his hands at least were sound. He pulled out the cushion and looked at it. Rich black, and it didn't look glaringly obvious, as she had promised. He slowly fastened it around the bench and studied the result. Finally, he sat down. The comfort was a definite improvement, but he was simply too tired to assimilate this tonight. His feelings were hitting overload, just as his body had Friday night, and his body wasn't far behind tonight, either. He stood back up without playing anything. "Let's go to bed," he said abruptly, and Cuddy followed, still trying to assess his response. It would take time, apparently. At least he hadn't outright rejected it. He really did look exhausted, and she felt much the same way.

They went through the bathroom in turn, and he took the newly increased dose on the sleeping pill. He then lay down, feeling bone weary from this day, and waited for her to finish fiddling with the monitor settings and the alarm clock. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the piano bench cover and her motives for it, but it at least was better than his imagined alternatives. He still had the assignment from Jensen to show her the home movies, too. He would watch them himself alone first, he decided, and force himself to face his own personal losses. Then with her the next night, when he could focus on her reaction, then with Rachel, for a cripple triple feature. But no more tonight. At least the movies would take a few days to get here. He knew he couldn't face anything else without more rest.

It was just as he had that thought, of course, that Cuddy got into bed and lay on the very edge of the mattress, stiffly keeping to her own side as if a barbed wire fence ran through the 3-foot gap between them. House groaned. She was overreacting as usual. He rolled over no-man's-land and caught her, pulling her to him. "Lisa," he said, "don't be ridiculous." He gave her a squeeze, then settled against her, picking up her hand between them.

"I don't want to . . ." she started to protest.

"Shut up," House replied. She smiled as if they had been conventional love words. She tried to lie carefully, but his warm presence against her was reassuring. His hand was still holding hers as they both fairly quickly found rest.

In the living room, Belle jumped up onto the couch, exploring the open box and considering its possibilities, then discarding it for the lure of something else new. She hopped back down and walked on to the piano bench. One graceful leap up, and she landed on the cushion. She sniffed it over thoroughly, kneaded it for a minute to test the texture, and finally settled down in the exact center, displaying herself against the rich fabric, purring her approval of the comfortable new perch as she fell asleep.


	61. Chapter 61

A/N: A short cat scene for this morning. :) I highly recommend cats for a homey touch around the domicile, cat hair included, even the cat hair that adheres and emigrates with me to rehearsals or other places. I have an assortment that are guaranteed between them to contrast in color against anything. I didn't have much writing time this morning; end of the month is a busy day, so this is just a niblet stuffed in a long download gap. Hopefully more tomorrow. The next chapter will contain one of my favorite inside jokes of the whole Pranks series. As House might say, it was irresistible.

(H/C)

The alarm clock blared its summons, and Cuddy surged to consciousness. She quickly slapped it into submission, then looked over at House, vaguely visible in the dimly street-lit room. He was still asleep. She reluctantly let go of his hand and got up, resigning herself to the day, although she suddenly just wanted to stay in bed with him, not through laziness but simply through appreciation. Of course, she couldn't do that. The girls would be up; work was waiting. The day's responsibilities were already answering reveille and turning out for morning inspection.

That had been the best night's sleep she'd had in a week. House had slept better, too, and the girls had only needed attention once. Cuddy had picked up his hand again as she returned to bed after getting them dealt with, even though she still tried to lie carefully and be considerate of him. She felt better this morning, the gnawing worry not eliminated yet, but definitely on the whole better. She leaned over now to kiss House, unable to resist his bed-rumpled hair, but she pulled back as he stirred slightly. No point in waking him up yet. He needed rest even more than she did.

A few minutes later, she padded down the hall, ready for her morning yoga. First, though, she walked around the piano, wanting to look at the cushion again. She stared. Belle blinked up at her and then stretched her jaws in a sleepy feline yawn. "OFF!" Cuddy demanded. Belle jumped at the tone, the caution of last week around Cuddy reasserting itself, and she vanished in a white blur. Cuddy groaned, looking at the cushion. White cat hairs were sprinkled on the black corduroy.

She was just finishing thoroughly vacuuming the cushion a few minutes later when she sensed House and looked over. He was standing in the edge of the living room, still looking adorably rumpled and not quite awake. She switched the machine off. "Good morning."

"Morning." He eyed the vacuum curiously. "New variation on yoga for exercise?"

"Cat hair." He assembled the pieces immediately and grinned, the annoyance of Belle claiming his present more than outweighed by amusement at Cuddy's greater disgust. "Did I wake you up yelling at her?" Cuddy asked anxiously. "I didn't mean to."

"No," he replied. She relaxed. "You woke me up vacuuming at 5:00 a.m."

Her shoulders drooped. "I'm sorry, Greg. I should have closed . . ."

He walked over, carefully dodging the vacuum. "You _did_ close the door." He kissed her deeply, and she dropped the hose with upholstery attachment somewhere during the ensuing minute. He broke away and looked down at the cushion. "Doesn't look too bad."

"This is the _cleaned _version." She shook her head. "That cat."

"Says something for comfort, anyway. She is a connoisseur." He sat back down, testing it out again, running the differential, though he still didn't play. His attention was on the cushion at the moment, not on the piano.

"We're going to have to put it up any time you're not using it," Cuddy decided. "She'll never stay off it when we're not right here to enforce the rules. You can just get it in and out of the closet whenever you want to play." She stopped, studying his expression. "What is it, Greg?"

"Nothing." He stood back up. "You'd better get to yoga if you're going to have time for it. I'll make some coffee."

She looked after him, trying to dissect his abrupt change in mood. He had been in analytical mode, thinking about the cushion, still trying to decide how he felt about it, but then the shadows had blown in across his face. Push him or give him space? Such a tightrope to walk at times with him. She decided to give him a minute and then go after him. Yoga could wait. Meanwhile, she returned the vacuum cleaner to the hall closet, then went back to unfasten the cushion and put it away in feline-proof safety for the day. The thing really was well made, she thought, admiring the workmanship. She tried it out herself for a moment - _big_ difference - then started unfastening the straps. It was secured very well by them, obviously to avoid any chance of accidental slippage. This thing wouldn't come off unless you wanted it to. She finished undoing the first strap, then froze, her own mind belatedly kicking into gear.

The cushion had been designed carefully and matched perfectly to be unobtrusive, but that effect would obviously be smashed to smithereens by him having to get it out of a closet beforehand and put it away after, going through the process every single time he wanted music. Of course he wouldn't want to do that, nor would he use it that way, and she couldn't blame him. That would only emphasize his disability instead of discreetly accommodating it.

With a sigh, Cuddy refastened the strap. Dignity was stronger than cat hair. She walked into the kitchen to find him staring at and through the gurgling coffee maker. She came up behind him and put her arms around him. "I apologize," she said, picking the phrase deliberately, wanting to get the words in before forcing him to a physical response. "I wasn't thinking."

He tensed up at first, then settled back into her touch, though still facing away from her. "I can't do it like that," he said finally, almost apologetically.

"I know. Furthermore, you shouldn't have to. If I'd thought for a minute, I never would have suggested it. The cat hair doesn't matter."

She felt with relief the change in him, humor flowing in to cover the sensitivity. He turned to face her. "The cat hair doesn't matter? So that means you won't be vacuuming it regularly?"

That thought gnawed at her, and she forced herself to yield. This was for _him_, damn it. She didn't have to look at it. "I'll leave it alone," she promised reluctantly.

He laughed at her expression. "Now _that's_ a sacrifice to love. What devotion; my wife will tolerate cat hair for my sake. I don't care if you vacuum it, Lisa. But please, not at 5:00 a.m., okay?"

She relaxed herself. "Agreed. I'll try to pick more considerate hours." She looked at him. "I'm sorry, Greg." They melded together.

In the living room, Belle crept out from under the couch and, with a wary eye toward the kitchen, jumped back onto the black cushion.


	62. Chapter 62

A/N: Sorry for no Wednesday chapter. I had thought I'd have time to write some more - Wednesday is my shortest day of the week at work - but it also was the first day I was okay to really go do active stuff after my head injury a few weeks ago. Gorgeous day, unbelievable for February 1st, and I took my free time working on an intensive land clearing project for a few hours on my farm. I know, probably not the greatest choice, but I only have two speeds, off and on. I was going nuts taking it easy. Anyway, thoroughly enjoyed it, just wore myself out, so between that and work and a rehearsal, no chance to write.

Enjoy this chapter and especially the joke with Kutner. I was laughing myself when my muse first presented that scene. Maybe more this weekend, maybe not. There aren't many chapters left. In order, they mentally run something like remainder of Tuesday and House's surprise, Tuesday night, Wednesday night, finish. I won't definitely say just three more chapters, though, as they somehow always are longer written down than they looked in my head.

Possible idea for a one-shot or at least very short taking place a bit after Verdict. That one is VERY preliminary, just the seed of an idea yesterday, something totally different. I watered it and will wait and see if it sprouts.

(H/C)

Cuddy entered her office and sat down, unable to resist a quick look at the picture on the wall. She could tell a difference on the Ativan and felt less like an anthill inside this morning, but the feeling remained that she should have dealt with this better, and having the nervousness ramped down a little bit just made the guilt that much more prominent. She looked at the spot where Sam had stood, remembering the cold fear as he pulled out the gun, and then she looked back at the picture. With a sigh, she started going through her messages.

(H/C)

House exited the elevator on 4, taking mental bets with himself who his first visitor would be. He won. Wilson entered his office not two minutes after House himself.

"Good morning," the oncologist said brightly.

House rolled his eyes. "Good morning? Since when do you waste time in small talk? You came in for a reason. Let's see, what on earth could that be?"

Wilson forced himself not to snap. "I was trying to be polite and not push you." House's expression was eloquent on the frequency of that having happened in the past. "You know, you could make things easier here. I'm trying to work on my issues."

He was right, House realized. If he himself could change, why not Wilson? In fact, Wilson had better start changing in a hurry if he wanted to keep his family. "All right, then, I'll play along. Good morning." Wilson stalled. House waited politely for a minute, then went on. "Comment number two, I'm fine. Number three, Cuddy's session was interesting but helpful. Did I miss anything there?"

Wilson gave him an annoyed look but then relaxed. House being House was refreshingly reassuring, even if the answers were less than detailed. "So this psychiatrist she's going to. Is he good?"

"_She_ seems quite good. Different from Jensen, but that's not a bad thing." The phone rang just then, and House answered. "Good morning...yes, it's me unless your speed dial had an electronic hiccup...I'm fine...really, I'm okay...I was trying to be polite. You know, you _could_ make things easier here." House was watching Wilson, and the oncologist was fighting laughter now. "So did you have a reason for calling, or did you just want to exchange greetings?...oh, all right. I'll be right there." House hit off and stood. "Gotta run - _limp_," he corrected with a flinch. "The Great White House Chief is requesting an audience."

Wilson walked to the office door with him. "Lunch later?"

"Sure. You haven't had the chance to buy me one in a few days. Cuddy's got a lunch meeting with some rich donor and his wife." They exited the office together, Wilson returning to his own office and House using his cane to call the elevator. The doors slid open a minute later, revealing Jensen.

"Can't talk now," House explained quickly. "My country calls. It was interesting, though, and so was last night afterward. I'll catch up with you sometime, and I'll check on Mark in a little while. Meanwhile, the chess set is on the shelf behind my desk chair." He passed the psychiatrist, and the elevator door closed behind him.

Down on 3 West, a new voice was heard as House approached the President's room. "You need a little more conviction when you say that this minor setback has given you even deeper appreciation for the far greater disabilities faced by the true heroes, those men and women who serve our country in the Armed Forces."

The President was obviously having trouble getting the words out. House stopped at the door, watching. "I also must say that this minor setback has given me..."

"Still haven't quite got it. Come on, say it like you mean it!" The man, obviously the speechwriter, was sounding frustrated at his inspirational words getting such a flat reading. Of course, House thought cynically, the political mouthpieces didn't really write their own speeches. Lincoln truly had. Jefferson had. Teddy Roosevelt, Woodrow Wilson, and Grant were good writers and had at least participated extensively in the editing process, but even they hired help to write them. Pretty much the rest of the pack relied on their White House ghostwriters, spinning out the most appealing or convicting words designed to land on the public's ears to greatest effect.

"But it's _not_ a minor setback, damn it." The President stared glumly at his feet. "I . . .Dr. House!" He looked up with relief, realizing that House was standing at the door watching this.

House unpropped himself from the doorway. "Hate to interrupt your rehearsal here, but you wanted to see me?" He walked across and pulled back the sheet. The President's feet had just been rebandaged.

"Looking good," Kutner supplied from just over his elbow. "The great toes are pinking up, and the excision lines are healing. He'll need rehab, of course, but he can probably be discharged soon."

The President ignored the words. "Dr. House, I have a proposal for you."

"No, thanks, I'm already married," House quipped.

The President refused to be derailed. "My staff physician will not be working with us anymore. That leaves an opening. I have been very impressed over the last week with your medical knowledge. How would you like to join my team?"

"You mean leave the hospital and travel with you all over the world?" House couldn't believe the man was asking. He meant it as a compliment, obviously, but the idea of being with a roving pack of politics 24/7 was far from appealing to House.

"Yes. Of course, you would have a far greater salary, and you'd basically only have one patient, me. Just always to be there if anything happened."

"No," House replied firmly.

The President blinked, unused to such a curt dismissal of an offered position. "Are you sure? Take some time to..."

"I don't _need_ to think about it. I've already seen the world, and the world comes to me these days. I have a family, and we're settled here. They need some stability in growing up, and they don't need an absentee dad, so that's not an option either. Furthermore, I detest politics, I'd be bored out of my mind, and I'd probably start World War III one day when some VIP in another country couldn't take a joke. So no."

The President looked acutely disappointed, but he at least recognized the iron behind the refusal that time. He looked away, then stopped as his eye happened to land on Kutner. Kutner, the young and unmarried one, the protege, who had first spotted clear from an audience that there was an issue with his feet. If he couldn't have House, Kutner was the next best substitute. "Dr. Kutner, how would you like the position? It would be quite an honor."

Kutner looked from the President to House. "No," he replied. "My education isn't finished, and I haven't come close to learning as much as he can teach me yet. He has a lot more to offer me than a minor political post does."

The President sighed. "Want Foreman?" House suggested. "He might take it. No, on the other hand, we need him around here, too. Sorry, Your Honor. I guess you'll just have to run a want ad or something. I'm sure you'll get lots of applicants." Subtly, House's fingers just barely brushed Kutner's back as he turned, and Kutner felt the gesture and straightened up with pride. No, Washington had nothing on this hospital. Kutner was sure he was right where he needed to be.


	63. Chapter 63

Cuddy was just pulling out her cell phone when House burst into the office without knocking (although these days, he did actually ascertain whether she was alone or whom she was with first). She looked up and promptly returned the cell phone to her jacket pocket. "You doing okay?" he asked.

She nodded. She had been just about to try Patterson's advice to call before she was totally ready to climb the wall, but seeing him in person was even better. "What have you been up to, Greg?" she asked, recognizing that familiar, mischievous gleam in his eye. She secretly had always loved his playful streak, and she now also understood something that had escaped her all those years. Part, though definitely not all, of that near-juvenile play in him was appreciation of no longer living under John's thumb. Never having had a true childhood in the first place, he was enjoying one as an adult.

He came around the desk and spun her chair to face him. "I just turned down a position on staff with the White House," he announced proudly.

Cuddy stared. "The President offered you a job?"

"Yep. Full-time presidential physician, only one patient, lots of travel and adventure, meeting bigwigs from every nation, seeing the world. Surely a job opportunity any doctor would jump at."

She laughed along with him. "He really doesn't know you. You'd go stir crazy in a week, and the thought of you at a continuous string of diplomatic events..." She shook her head. "Two big-bucks donor functions a year are pushing your limits."

"The promise of sex for good behavior helps there. Shame you didn't realize that years ago. But yes, I'd go nuts zooming around the political world with him." His mood changed abruptly, now completely serious. "Besides, I couldn't uproot the family, and I couldn't leave you and the girls, either."

Cuddy smiled, basking in that assurance. "You told him that?"

"Absolutely. That even came before the risks of me starting World War III at a state dinner." He was suddenly thoughtful. "What was interesting, though, is Kutner. Of course _I'd _turn him down; you don't have to worry there. But then he went after Kutner as Plan B, and Kutner refused to leave the team. Didn't even have to think about it. Turned him down flat, right then."

"That surprises you? I wouldn't expect him to have to think about it. Maybe a few years down the road when he's learned more from you, but not now." He still looked a little surprised at the automatic loyalty. "So, Greg, you said last night to the sitter to come after we get the girls to bed at 7:00 so we have some time with them tonight. What's this grand surprise of yours after that?"

The playfulness immediately returned. "What's the totally positive present for my birthday?"

"That's not fair," she protested.

"You're right. My birthday's not until this weekend, and you'd get your answer a lot sooner. Guess we'll have to put the surprise off, too. Oh, well. See you later." He turned and started ostentatiously for the office door.

"Greg!" she protested, rising to pursue him. He stopped at the door, actually turning the knob and opening the door slightly while looking back to appreciate fully her approaching exasperation. In the next moment, he jumped and turned his attention to the outer office.

"Dr. House!" The mail room worker had been standing at Cuddy's secretary's desk sorting her stack out of his plastic container, and he had looked up at the opening of the door. He came forward now quickly, pushing the door open further. "I didn't realize you were in here. You've got an express mail envelope from Lexington."

House froze, every muscle in his back tensing up as Cuddy was crossing the office toward him. His former playfulness evaporated, as did hers, replaced by concern. "Greg?"

The mail room minion turned back to set down Cuddy's mail on the secretary's desk and then fished out the flat-rate envelope from the remainder. "We signed for it already when the mail delivery came in this morning, but I was heading up to 4 to find you next anyway. Figured you'd want to see this soon. I think it's from a relative of yours, and it's got fragile, urgent, and everything else written across it." He handed the envelope over. "There you are. Glad I caught you here." He turned away, knowing better than to wait for thanks from House, and left.

House stood there, still motionless, staring down at the envelope that had been thrust into his hands. He had asked Blythe to send the pictures and DVD to work instead of home to better avoid Cuddy tripping across them until he had chosen the time to share them, and his mother had agreed to mail them Monday morning first thing. He definitely had _not_ asked her to send them express mail, overnight delivery, and she had indeed added about five comments of her own on the outside of the envelope to the USPS emphasizing the importance of these contents. A package playing the Star-Spangled Banner couldn't have drawn more attention along its route than this one had.

Such a deceptively thin envelope. Several pictures and a DVD didn't take up much room, not nearly as much room as the memories, memories which all flooded in and tossed his mind along with them like the lacrosse ball that he had once mastered on the field. What he used to be. What he was now instead. He was holding his past life in his hands.

"_Greg!_" He jumped and focused, realizing that Cuddy was right there, her hand on his arm, her worried eyes on his face.

"Greg, what is it?" He was still so tense he looked about to break, his eyes seeing something far larger than this package, and it had taken him the fourth repetition of his name to respond to her at all.

He looked at the office door. She pushed it closed again, shutting off the world's ears with a quick, pointed look at her secretary. "What is that?" she asked, looking down again at the package. Fragile. Urgent. Handle with Care. Very Important. Overnight.

"Haven't opened it yet, and I can't see through envelopes," he responded finally. He sounded hoarse, and the attempt at a joke only drew attention to the total lack of lightheartedness behind it.

"You know good and well what's in there," she insisted.

He pulled away from her hand on his arm, but his legs were almost wooden, and he stumbled as he tried to walk across the office. She caught him quickly. "Greg, what _is _it? What has she done now?"

"It's not . . . she hasn't done anything, Lisa. It's nothing."

"Bullshit. To both of those. I know something about her has been bothering you since your call Saturday night."

He took another step, trying to pace away independently, but the damn leg had become twice as crippled as if laughing at him. He suddenly flung his cane down in disgust. _Damn it_.

Cuddy ducked around to his right side, taking that arm instead. She ignored the cane on the floor and became a support herself, steering him gently to the couch, helping him down. "Greg, _please_ talk to me."

He looked down at the envelope, still clutched tightly in his left hand, then at her, just in time to see her misread his silence and look away, hurt. "I guess I don't have any right to ask it after last week, do I? Not after everything I..."

House audibly groaned. "Lisa, _please_. This isn't about last week." Not mostly, anyway. It was about the last several years. He couldn't _deal_ with this right now. Not all at once, not caught off guard with her right here. This wasn't how he had planned it. He needed time alone first, time to look at it and grieve in private, but his chances of just dismissing the importance of this package to her for the moment were less than zero. Abruptly, he thought of Jensen and his annoying insistence on an open admission whenever House didn't feel ready to talk about something yet. The psychiatrist would back off but only after forcing House to ask directly without efforts at evasion. "It -" House took a deep breath and cleared his throat, then started again. "It is something, but I'm not ready to talk about it yet. I _will_ share it with you. I promise. But not yet. I can't just yet. _Please_."

She was knocked out of her own guilt by the unexpected, raw honesty in his admission. "When will you?" she asked, and her concern was for him, not her suspense.

He heard the distinction, though didn't acknowledge it directly. Damn it, she was getting more worried about him. He couldn't blame her, really; he could only imagine how pathetic he looked right now. But he needed to face it alone first. "Tomorrow night," he said finally. "After the girls get to sleep, tomorrow night. But not tonight. Besides, we already had plans for tonight." And he now had additional plans for much later tonight after she was solidly asleep. But he couldn't possibly put her off longer than one day. That was just adding to her stress, and she had plenty already. Ready or not, he would have to deal with himself tonight and then show her the past tomorrow.

Cuddy studied him, surprised by the specific answer. "Tomorrow night?"

He nodded. "One day. Give me one day. Please, Lisa."

She put her arm around him, pulling him over against her, running her hand soothingly up and down his left upper arm. "Okay, Greg. But I'll hold you to it. You _need_ to talk about this."

"I know," he admitted. He leaned into her, steadying himself against her strength, against her whole, sound body, and closed his eyes.

Cuddy could feel the faint tremors in him as she held him. She looked at the envelope which he hadn't yet released, still held tightly, almost desperately in his left hand, but that left hand was extended, not letting it touch his body. She hadn't yet reached for the envelope in this whole scene, although she was itching to grab it, pull it away from him, and rip it open herself to discover details of Blythe's latest sin. She truly hoped he had talked about this with Jensen. He was a coiled spring right now. What could be this big stuffed into a flat-rate envelope? Again she thought of calling Blythe for interrogation, and again, she fought down the urge. He had to tell her himself. She hoped tomorrow night would come quickly, for his sake.

After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and straightened up. The slight tremors had stopped at least. He looked at his cane across the room in the floor, needing it, hating the necessity. She got up without comment, retrieved it, and offered it to him. "So what are we doing tonight?" she asked, trying to change the subject - not that she really wanted to, but he wanted some distance from that envelope right now, in spite of how tightly he was clutching it.

He gave her a silently grateful look. "First, we'll go out to eat. We can just have a nibble with the girls earlier if we're hungry."

"Sounds wonderful. And then?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise." Not a trace of playfulness in him now, though. He heaved himself to his feet, and she watched closely and forced herself not to help him unless she had to. He looked a little steadier on his feet, though still not baseline, even for him. Earlier, he had looked almost as unsteady as those early days after the infarction when he was learning to walk again on his newly subtracted leg muscles. "I've got to go check on Mark," he said. He limped slowly to the office door. "See you later, Lisa."

"See you later," she replied.

The door closed behind him. She walked to the desk and sat back down, but it was a long time before she gave even the illusion of returning to work.


	64. Chapter 64

House entered his office and stiffly dropped into his desk chair, staring at the package. Damn it, having it delivered by singing telegram couldn't have been more obvious. Part of him wanted to call Blythe and give her a piece of his mind, but he knew he couldn't yet. He would later, but not now, not here at work with the hospital humming along around him, anybody walking in any moment, and Cuddy checking on him regularly still, probably even more regularly since he knew he had worried her.

Blythe's actions were maddening, but they were only one small piece of the emotional impact of getting handed that envelope. He had not expected such a flood of memory and emotion from holding the past in his hands, and that would have applied anywhere. He had even forgotten Cuddy was there for the first few moments and hadn't heard her calling his name. He _had_ to deal with this, he had no choice, definitely had no choice now. But he needed to be alone and uninterrupted first to ride the storm out and grieve for his leg in private. Calling Blythe now to shred her, though deserved, would be trying to step off an emotional cliff while still keeping a handhold on the ledge, going only partway over while not letting himself fall. One slip, and he would quite likely tumble on into the chasm yawning below. No, he had to face himself first, alone and off hospital grounds, and while Blythe was firmly assigned a number, it wasn't #1.

Taking a deep breath, he put the Express Mail envelope in his desk drawer, shutting off the sight, although his mind still saw it there. He got up and headed back for the door. He did need to check on Mark, and Jensen, even indirectly in a group, would steady him. He wasn't counting on more from the psychiatrist today, not after he'd shut the other man off earlier at the elevator. He'd been curious about the President's request, in full work mode on that case, and also standing in the hallway at PPTH with a group of employees heading down the hall toward them, but that dismissal really had been abrupt. He looked over at the shelves - the chess set was missing - then left the office.

In Mark's room, Mark and Jensen were indeed playing chess while Pam watched with that expression of somebody appreciating something in general that they will never truly appreciate in person. House stopped in the doorway, watching. With both heads bent over the chess set, which was on the rolling tray table between them, the similarity of expression, not just features, was remarkable. Both brothers fully in thought, studying the board. It looked like a mirror image.

Pam, the least focused, was first to realize he was there. "Good morning, Dr. House," she greeted him warmly. Jensen and Mark both looked up from the game. Jensen's eyes lingered much longer, long enough that his brother finished his analysis solo and moved a rook.

"Your move, Michael." Jensen turned back and looked at the board, trying to spot the difference. He had lost track completely. Mark tapped the rook lightly with one finger. "Come on. I've almost got you."

"Almost isn't totally there yet," Jensen responded. House had to grin to himself. There was an edge of real competitiveness there, in spite of the fact that Jensen lost the vast majority of games with his brother. He was quite good at chess; Mark was just spectacular. But it was obvious that even in the hospital setting, Jensen didn't intend to provide a halfhearted, easy round to edge back into things. He studied the game, trying to regain his focus, although Mark had already noticed the shift in attention and looked up at House briefly, then back down.

House stayed in the doorway, silently watching the game lurch back into motion, and then, coming to attention, he studied the monitor. Medical mode kicked in, steadying him even more than Jensen had. He turned his back on the emotional chasm of disability and retreated from the edge.

"Checkmate." Mark moved his queen in for the fatal strike. "Good game, Michael. You just about had me in a corner a few times." He sagged back against the pillow, getting tired and trying to hide it.

Jensen pushed the chess set aside. "We'll play another match later."

"No," House insisted from the doorway. He was still looking at the monitor. "Play another one now. Was that your first game?"

"Yes," Jensen answered. "Why do you want us to keep going?"

"He's getting tired," Pam objected.

"I am not," Mark insisted. He pulled the tray back over himself and doggedly started setting up the board again. He had been willing to take a rest period as long as nobody was making a point of it, but now that House had brought that out into the open, he wasn't about to admit it.

"Why?" Jensen repeated.

House limped over to the monitor, feeling Jensen's attention sharpen up again at his stride. He spoke quickly, getting their attention back on the patient where it belonged. "I stopped at the nurse's station to look over the strips from last night. It's getting better, but you can still clearly see every time he got up. I know he's getting tired; that's the point. I want to watch how his heart reacts to stress."

Mark was getting more annoyed now, though his voice never raised. "And you want to push my cognitive processes a little bit, too, right?"

House shrugged. "You said it; I didn't. The chess test: A multidiagnostic tool. I might even write a paper about this."

Mark rolled his eyes. Jensen moved the board over. "Okay, Mark, who led off last time? I don't remember."

"I did. _Focus_, Michael."

Jensen considered, then made his opening move. House stood there - _right_ there, very hard to miss now - watching Mark and the monitors as the game progressed. Mark was clearly getting tired and also annoyed at House, and this game definitely was harder for him than the last one. Even so, Jensen didn't give an inch, House noted, again doing his best. Maybe he had let Cathy win a few other family games here and there when she was small, as many fathers will, but chess between these two, while friendly, was obviously also serious. In the end, Mark won, but it was a very close game, most of the board cleared.

"And that is _enough_," Pam demanded, standing up.

House nodded. "His heart still isn't quite back to baseline, but it's improving. Never gets too far off rhythm, but it's still reacting to any kind of stress more than it should."

"I _will_ be ready to go home soon," Mark insisted. He looked like he was on the verge of falling asleep.

"Probably. But you aren't yet. You could have easily died last Tuesday; give it time."

Mark started to make some comment to that, and Pam moved right up to the bed, soothing him silently with one hand running down his arm. House gave the room a general nod. "I'll probably be back this afternoon for another check before I head home, but you're making progress." He limped out of the room, his mind in fact on the possible uses of diagnostic chess in different illnesses.

Back up in his office, he sat down, looked at the closed desk drawer briefly, then logged onto the computer, intending to see if anybody else had written a study of this, though he didn't think so. He was trying to distract himself from the envelope, but he was also genuinely interested.

The cell phone rang. Cuddy. "Hi, Lisa," he said.

"Are you . . . okay?" she asked. She was trying to respect the line he had drawn and give him one day, but the question wasn't just physical this time.

"I'm fine. Just got back from pressuring Mark with the chess test today."

She laughed. "So he's still improving?"

"He's going to be fine. He's not going to have much energy for a while, and I pity his family, but he's getting better fast considering where he was a week ago." A tap sounded on the door, and House looked up. Jensen. He was surprised to see the psychiatrist, but after a second, he waved a hand invitingly. "Looks like I'll probably discharge him tomorrow night or Thursday morning," House continued, pointedly speaking to his twin audience now. Jensen relaxed somewhat and took one of the chairs in front of the desk. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine, Greg," she said. "Well, I'm - it's better than it was."

"Good. I'm having lunch with Wilson in a little bit, but call me again before your conference."

"I will. I love you."

"Love you, too." House hit end and slowly put the phone down on the desk, then looked back up at the psychiatrist. "I didn't mean to slam the door on you earlier; there were just other things going on then."

"I understand. You're at work, after all." Indeed there wasn't any hurt in Jensen's voice. "What's happened since then?" House had only been in working mode earlier at the elevator, but in Mark's room, he was deeply rattled and also limping worse than before.

House was too jarred by this morning to put the effort into dodging, not when he knew it was pointless with Jensen anyway. He opened the desk drawer and handed the envelope over silently. Again, just touching the thing made the old memories kick up. Diagnostic chess faded into the mental background.

Jensen studied it and sighed. "She _really_ could have done that better. You need to point that out to her."

"I will. I can't right now, though. Too much else along with it I have to shovel through, and now Lisa . . . would you believe the mail moron handed me that _right _in front of her?"

Jensen was sympathetic but pushed on to the point. "That's unfortunate, but you were going to tell her anyway. I take it you didn't tell her then?" He turned the unopened envelope in his fingers.

"No." House could feel his breathing try to accelerate again, and he firmly forced it to even out. "I was going to pick the time, and I thought I had a few days in transit. Now I'm forced into it. She gave me a day, but that's as much as I could ask for. Tomorrow night."

"Why not tonight? I realize you can't open this can of worms at work; it's too stressful. But what good does putting it off more do?"

House shook his head firmly. "Not tonight. I've got a surprise for her first, and that's important. And then later. . ." His voice faded into silence. Later. Just him and his memories.

Jensen looked at him directly. "You're going to open it alone first, aren't you?"

It didn't take a diagnostic genius to hear the disapproval in his voice. House immediately got defensive. "I need to do this alone, deal with it myself. Then her the next night, then Rachel night after. Splitting it up was _your_ idea, remember?"

"Splitting up Rachel and Dr. Cuddy, yes. That will help. But I never suggested you going through everything alone first. You _aren't_ alone, Dr. House. Do it with Dr. Cuddy tonight."

"I _can't_," House insisted. "I need to be able to . . ."

"You want to be able to watch her and analyze her reaction without your own emotions in the way. Two faults with that plan, Dr. House. First, there is no possible way you can get your emotions totally 'out of the way,' as you think of it. You can't schedule one processing hour, check that off the list, and move on. People don't work like that. You'll actually make _less_ progress trying to watch these alone first. She could help you a great deal by being there with you." House was the picture of stubbornness. "Second fault, the reason you want to analyze her is to sort out her reaction to your leg. What you are looking for simply isn't there, Dr. House. She doesn't resent you. She doesn't think less of you. She was under a lot of stress last week and said some things she didn't mean, but I don't think this is about last week as much as it's about how you feel in general about your disability. You're projecting your own fears onto her."

"Again, _you _are the one who said to do her in a separate session."

"Not because I was worried about her reaction. I thought _you_ needed to start processing this separate from Rachel, and she can reassure and help you. Seeing that she isn't judging you will help you watch it yourself. But you _don't _need to start off alone."

House got to his feet and started stiffly pacing. "You know what she gave me last night? Sort of an unbirthday present; she'd thought about getting it for my birthday but then decided it was too awful to give me then."

"What?" Jensen asked.

"A therapeutic piano bench cushion special made for cripples," House told him.

"And did it help?"

House stopped in his pacing, caught off guard by the question. "I haven't had much chance to try it out."

"You've definitely tried it out a time or two, even if briefly," Jensen pushed.

"Yes, damn it. It's much more comfortable. But that's not the point."

"That is _exactly_ the point. From her view, that is the _sole_ point. That's all she was trying to do, give you something that made playing more comfortable. Any other overtones are your own projections." House looked thoughtful. "You want to trust her motives on this, Dr. House. You can."

If only it were that easy. House limped back to his desk and sat down. "I still want to see those pictures and DVD alone first."

"And that is a mistake," Jensen insisted. "There is no way you will be looking through those alone, Dr. House. You'll have your own grief and memories, almost certainly your father's remembered comments in his voice, and if Dr. Cuddy isn't there herself, you'll have your fears of what she really thinks, which will be far worse than the reality. Let her be there to even the odds. Two against two is a fair fight. Three to one isn't."

House looked at the envelope, which Jensen had been holding all through this. "You know what Mom said when I asked her for those? She doesn't know about Rachel or what I planned. She was just thrilled that I was finally ready to face this. That's probably why she rushed them, before I could change my mind." He shook his head. "I'm being forced into this anyway, by Rachel, now by the mail guy. I'm _not_ ready."

"Yes, you are," Jensen countered. "Actually, I think you were getting ready to deal with this anyway. You never would have thought of it otherwise. This was _your_ idea, remember?"

"With a little boost from the President Friday night, acting like I'd always been like this, and then from you Saturday morning talking about Cathy and different approaches. It took a while to gel, but it wasn't totally my idea."

"It was. I have thought recently that you were coming close to facing your feelings over your disability. I didn't really expect it before the trial, but you took the initiative there. And if you _weren't_ ready, you never would have taken that initiative. You certainly wouldn't have acted on the thought once you had it, merely stuffed it back down. You just gave me another piece of proof that you're ready for this, too."

House looked up, his curiosity piqued. "What's that?"

"Dr. Cuddy's gift. She's never given you something specifically for your leg before. Do you think she would have done this a year ago?"

"N-oo." House drew the word out to two syllables, thinking.

"She knows you, Dr. House. You two have a very strong sense of each other. If she got that gift, subconsciously she knew that you were ready to receive it." The psychiatrist leaned forward a little, putting the envelope on the desk between them. "_Trust_ her, Dr. House. Don't do this to yourself alone first. You can both watch it tonight after the girls are in bed."

"No, I've got something else planned for tonight, and that's important, too. I was going to have the Cripple Show later after Lisa was asleep."

"And while you yourself should be," Jensen pointed out. "But what else is going on tonight?"

House was most of the way through explaining that when his cell phone rang again. He picked it up. Taub. "House. _Without_ previous history? Wrap him up to go and call the others, but don't expect a tip for delivery." He put the phone down. "Taub caught an interesting-looking fish in the ER. On to the next case."

Jensen accepted the dismissal, standing up and pushing the envelope closer to House. "Your plans for tonight are fine up until the last step. Please don't do that alone, Dr. House."

"I'll - think about it," House replied grudgingly. Jensen knew better than to push for more. He left the office. House stared at the envelope for a full minute before gingerly picking it up as if it were hot and shoving it back into the desk drawer, out of sight.


	65. Chapter 65

A/N: Almost done with this one, folks. We'll probably finish the story within the next week. Verdict, next up in this universe, isn't ready yet; it's a power-packed little thing for being so short. At least, I think it's short. Much shorter than this one. :) So there might well be a gap in between. On the other hand, I did have my muse suddenly this last week start working on a 1-shot (I think) that's something different entirely, nothing to do with the Pranks stories, sort of an AU end of season 5 extending into an AU beginning of season 6. We shall see where that goes. Thanks for the reviews, and to all those who have said you still enjoy rereading through the stories even after this long ride, thanks again. That means a lot.

(H/C)

The remainder of the day passed uneventfully except for House's reaction when, in pleasant chit-chat about kids over lunch, Wilson wondered if Daniel might ever hook up with either of the House girls years down the road, and if so, which one. House's response that they were firmly off the market until age 21 had the oncologist grinning into his burger and fries and trying to hide it. House, the irascible curmudgeon of PPTH for so many years, showing a protective daddy streak.

Cuddy made it through the rest of the day without an outright panic attack by taking Patterson's advice not to let it get that far. They drove home separately, as House wanted to retrieve his motorcycle, but he was careful to stay right in front of her and easily in sight all the way home, even stopping at a yellow light to avoid making her dance with red.

Later, after both girls were sound asleep, House emerged from the bathroom to find Cuddy giving a long string of instructions to the sitter, who had a slightly martyred look. House grabbed his wife's arm, propelling her toward the door. "Come on, Lisa. She's watched them before, you know. Lots of times."

Cuddy let him steer her away but then hesitated, looking down at herself. "What do we need to be wearing tonight, Greg?"

"Clothes," he replied promptly. "At the restaurant, at least. Looks like we have clothes on to me."

"I mean what _kind_ of restaurant?"

"One that serves food." He pushed her on out the door. "You look fine, Lisa. If you go back to change, we'll lose 15 minutes minimum, and we might miss our reservations."

"Did we miss reservations last night?" she worried.

"Nope. I made them earlier today. Wasn't sure how you'd feel after last night, so Part A of the surprise evening wasn't firmly nailed down yet."

"You were pretty tired, too," she remembered, and she felt his arm tense up beneath her fingers as they stopped at the car. "I didn't mean it like that. I just . . . I know yesterday was hard on you, too. I don't feel quite as much like I let you down with your surprise as long as it wasn't only me who wasn't up to it after that appointment. We were _both_ worn out."

"Just stop while you're ahead," he advised, but he had relaxed a little bit again, though not completely. He rounded the car, climbing into the driver's seat. Cuddy looked over at his chiseled profile and wished she could stop tripping over his leg in conversation. She scolded herself firmly to stay off that subject tonight, not by look, not by implication, not by anything. He seemed so incredibly sensitive right now. Which undoubtedly was her fault. The guilt swelled up again. "Quit it," he said as he backed out of the driveway. "No guilt allowed tonight. Or worry either. Just a good time together on a date."

"Agreed," she replied, hoping she could live up to the pact. "Where are we going, Greg?"

"Rigolini's." He smiled like a cat who swallowed a canary, waiting for her to be impressed.

He wasn't disappointed. "Seriously? They're booked up for two weeks in advance! How did you get reservations just today?"

"It helps if you diagnosed a relative of his once. See, there _is_ an advantage to doing this tonight. Last night, deciding at the last minute, we would have had to pick someplace else."

"You said Part A," she remembered. "So if eating out is Part A, what's Part B?"

"It's the next thing that comes after Part A." His eyes were laughing at her, his voice teasing. Cuddy relaxed, suddenly feeling better than she had all day. Maybe things really could get back to normal.

The meal was everything she could have wanted, delicious Italian along with a glass of good wine and her husband for company. He held the conversation on the subject of the girls while they ate, though she noticed that he did _not_ bring music into it. But exchanging hopes and stories about their daughters was refreshingly normal, and she was thoroughly relaxed, not from wine but from the company, by the time they left the restaurant. "That was wonderful, Greg. So where now?" she asked as she got in the car.

"Close your eyes," he requested. She stalled. She had hated close-your-eyes games even when she was a kid. She wanted to _see _what was coming next to prepare herself to deal with it. "Come on, trust me," he urged her.

She sighed and closed her eyes. "This had better be good."

"I'll give you a play-by-play commentary so you won't miss anything. We're going down a street. Okay, now we've stopped at a stop light. There's traffic. There are businesses. Light's green, so here we go. Turning onto another street."

She laughed in spite of herself. "Oh, stop it, Greg. You're enjoying this."

"You will be soon," he replied. _I hope_.

He pulled into PPTH and parked in her administrative-perks close space. He switched the car off and looked at the hospital. No, even getting late now, she wouldn't appreciate being walked in across the lobby with her eyes closed, although he would have loved leading her. She'd know where she was by the sound of the place anyway. This was as far as he could push close-your-eyes. He was truly impressed that she had managed not to peek this far. "Okay, open them."

She opened her eyes and looked up at the big building. "Weren't we already here today?"

"We were? I must have missed that." He got out. "Come on, Lisa."

She got out and walked beside him toward the main door. "What's going on?"

"You'll see." Into the hospital, across the lobby, and then to her office. He locked the door behind them and drew the blinds.

Cuddy looked at the picture, then at her desk, neatly organized for tomorrow morning, then back at him. "What?" she asked. "This is your big surprise? My office?"

"Patience. You'll see in a minute." He nodded toward her desk. "Go sit down." Increasingly confused and a little bit impatient, she obeyed. He moved to stand in the middle of the floor between her desk and the door, slowly shifting ground until he stopped. "Is this where Sam was standing when he pulled the gun?"

Cuddy shivered in memory. "Yes."

"Thought so. Your eyes started to shift toward the picture, then stayed on me. So you were sitting there, and he was standing right here. Do I have it?"

"Yes. Greg, _what _are you doing?"

He took a deep breath and dove in. "Reconditioning. Like the carpet glue last fall. Tonight, we reclaim your office, and we keep reclaiming it as we have a chance, as long as we need to." He started to unbutton his shirt. "_Look _at me, Lisa. Look at _me_. Don't see him. He isn't here anymore." He would never forget her unwrapping herself like a present step by step in his office, pulling his attention away from the memories, drawing him in. He felt more than inadequate measured against her at a strip dance, but he knew that she needed this. She needed to break through her fear and reclaim control of her work environment. He slid the shirt off, trying to keep his balance - falling over in front of her would be far from sexy. He reached for his zipper, then hesitated suddenly.

Cuddy had sat behind the desk watching, warmly appreciating not only his body but the gesture. He was right; it was _far_ better to picture him here than Sam, and the sight of him was working its magic. When he hesitated, though, she immediately read his mind. He was doubting his own attractiveness, especially once his leg would be revealed. If only he knew how little that really mattered to her, other than the pain to him. She stood up, unable to resist going to him any longer. There was also the other fear still in the back of her mind, the fear of hurting him physically again, but looking at his eyes, she knew that bringing that up right now would shatter what little physical self-confidence he had. Tonight was stronger than the memory of Thursday, just as it was stronger than a week ago.

She walked to him, reaching out for him, smiling with her eyes. "Yes, he was standing right there. But he wasn't even a tenth as sexy to look at as you are." She reached for his zipper herself, feeling the fear and the memories losing power as she went on. "And then he pulled out his gun." She pulled the zipper down.

They wound up in short order on the floor, landing there together, neither of them consciously helping the other down. Resolutions vanished along with their clothes, and Cuddy was not having to try now, the sensations, the _hunger_ for him knocking all of her assorted fears clean out of the way. It seemed forever since they had been together. She had _missed _this.

One final thought made it past the rushing river of sensation as she felt the carpet beneath them. "Greg, we'll get rug burns."

He paused briefly and looked straight at her, his incomparable blue eyes luminous. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

Neither, she immediately decided, did she.


	66. Chapter 66

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews. This is (half of) another of my favorite chapters in this story, and I hope you all enjoy it. I didn't really mean to break this here, but that's how the schedule rolls, and I doubt I'll have time before Thursday or Friday to write more with this week, so I'll go ahead and give you this much.

About "less is more" physical scenes, which somebody mentioned, I just have to share a great quote I ran into a few weeks ago in a book and loved. I have always thought myself that love scenes, be they in print or on the screen, are actually much more evocative and more beautiful when they stop short of telling it all, when something is left to the imagination, rather than in detail to the utmost. (I am aware that there are a LOT of people who disagree with me there on FF net and want as many paragraphs in sex scenes as possible. Which is their prerogative; we all have our opinions, after all. But this one, very firmly, is mine.)

Anyway, I was reading a book a few weeks ago about Gregory Peck, famous Oscar-winning actor and, incidentally, the only one I have ever paid for a ticket to see. To see him, I mean, not paying admission to a movie but actually paid about $35, I think it was, just to hear him talk. In the late 1990s, he came through the area on a speaking tour that started out with highlight clips from his 50-odd-year movie career, and then he himself came out in person and took most of the evening in question and answer from the audience. I was very impressed. He had to be well in his 80s, though still quite handsome. But still mentally sharp as a tack, fielded wide-ranging questions all evening without ever a trip and with some great stories. He was gracious, honest, and able to appreciate a joke on himself. At one point in the evening, somebody asked him if he enjoyed reading poetry, and he agreed that he did when he had time. They asked him to recite any famous poem. He promptly did "the Lake Isle of Innisfree" by Yeats from memory, not only reciting it but a wonderful rendition. A thoroughly enjoyable evening. There are very few actors I'd pay money to get a ticket into a question-and-answer session like that. Definitely would have Cary Grant, had I ever had the opportunity; Arsenic and Old Lace remains one of my favorite "so you think _you're_ having a bad day?" movies. I would for Hugh. But it's a quite short list. Unfortunately, the vast majority of actors I've seen, I may have enjoyed the $5 movie (or not), but I wouldn't consider it worth paying $35 to sit and listen to them talk for a few hours.

Back to the book I was recently reading. In the course of this biography, Peck was asked at some point his opinion on the "more is more" phenomenon surging through movies in regard to physical love scenes. His response: "It's degrading to the profession of acting. I prefer the suggestiveness of acting skill. Give the people in the audience the right suggestions, and they'll fill in the details. You don't have to sock them in the face." My sentiments exactly.

Enjoy the chapter. There shouldn't be any suspense with the next one, just anticipation. We all know what's going to happen, and yes, we're right. :) I do love the journey, though, even so.

(H/C)

Cuddy snapped awake abruptly from uneasy dreams with that late-night feeling of dread that something was wrong. Not just her imagination this time; something _was_ wrong, and while the dreams had been disturbing ones, she knew she hadn't just fled them into wakefulness. No, something had woken her up. Had someone called her name?

Her first action was to turn toward House's side of the bed, but he was gone, and her hand, gripped so securely and reassuringly in his as they fell asleep together, was now cold and empty. She sat up, switching on the lamp. "Greg?" She looked toward the bathroom, but it was dark. Not a sound from the girls on the monitor. With a frown, she ran one hand across his side of the bed, finding it cold. He had been up for a while. She stood up herself and grabbed her robe, trying to fight back the worries to face the reality. She gave one look at the clock as she left the bedroom; it was roughly an hour since they had exchanged good nights and, warmly sated from the evening, she had fallen asleep quickly. He had taken the sleeping pill; at least, she assumed he had. She didn't take direct inventory of his meds each time, of course, but he had taken some pills as usual before bed. He ought to be here.

She opened the bedroom door and gave one look toward the nursery, but she walked on drawn as if by a magnet toward the living room. The low glow of a lamp could be seen at the end of the hall, but there was heavy silence like a blanket over the house. Then once again, as she hurried down the hall, she heard her name, thin, soft, weak, the sound barely making it out of the reach of the light. A feeble prayer of desperation spoken by someone who believes already that he will not be answered. "Lisa."

She ran the short remaining distance down the hall toward him.

(H/C)

House had waited until he was sure she was asleep before letting go of her hand and slipping out of bed softly. He stood there for a long time, still debating, Jensen's advice warring with his own fears. He knew he wouldn't be able to watch her closely the first time he saw the pictures and especially the DVD himself. To take her on trust or not? He had chewed that question over mentally the whole way home, but Cuddy had been happy and more relaxed than at any point in the prior week, and he hated to stick on Cripple Productions as the finale to what had, thus far, been a very successful evening in her own recovery. Still, Jensen's advice usually was sound. Should he wake her back up? But how would he be sure for the future what her reaction really had been if he was too lost in himself to analyze it?

It was, ironically, his leg itself that tipped the scales on the decision. It gradually pulsed through his thoughts in an increasing crescendo, informing him that it did not like standing still for so long beside the bed. Annoyed at his own physical weakness, he turned away abruptly and left the room, being sure to close the bedroom door firmly so he wouldn't disturb her. He looked into the nursery on the way, wasting another few minutes watching his daughters sleeping peacefully. Finally, when he couldn't deny any longer that he was just stalling, he limped the rest of the way to the living room, painfully aware of the permanent unevenness of his stride.

In the living room, he switched on a lamp, then retrieved the Express Mail envelope from his backpack. He sat down on the couch and held it in his hands, already feeling the deep trembling within him, the chasms of memory and loss opening. Belle, curled on the piano bench cushion, gave an inquiring meow, and he looked up blankly at her, then back down at his hands. Slowly, he pulled the tab and extracted the stack of pictures with the DVD on top. He set the DVD aside, knowing that would be the worst, and flipped through the pictures.

He had seen them before, of course, but he had never really _seen _them prior to the infarction. You don't appreciate looking at still shots of something when the activity itself is available at will, and House had never enjoyed looking at pictures of himself anyway. The ones with John or some illusion of "family" were a joke, and the ones of himself alone had just been himself alone with the desperate loneliness that _nobody_ had seen. Not his mother, not his true father, who had only been an occasionally visiting friend a handful of times but who had a sharp intelligence that Blythe lacked. No one had seen it, even though to himself, childhood pictures screamed it.

Blythe had sent him out into the world with a photo album to remember them by, the source for these shots and many others, but he'd barely looked at it other than promptly to remove and burn every shot including John or any pretense of a family. The sports shots had survived as the only ones with any positive associations at all, but after that, the album had collected dust on a shelf. After leaving home at age 18, he had pointedly avoided being in pictures if possible, and it was only since getting with Cuddy that he had actually gone to a professional photographer a few times. That family shot from a few months ago that she had put on her cell phone lived in the top drawer of his desk, not out in the open, but guarded, treasured, and he pulled it out often privately to look, not at himself but at her and especially at his daughters. There were no shadows behind their eyes. There was no hidden meaning. They really were a family.

These actions shots, though, mostly from high school, had only received cursory attention prior to the infarction and then in his freshly crippled fit had narrowly escaped destruction without even a close viewing first. He had never really _looked _at them.

He did now, forcing himself to face it. Him leaping for a lacrosse ball, his then-whole body united in one vigorous effort of will, every inch of him answering the call. He stared at it, naming the muscles one by one, then naming what wasn't there anymore. His hands started to shake visibly now. It was so damned unfair. The _one_ piece of his younger life that had made him feel completed, whole, effective, ripped away forever. He would never jump again, never chase a ball except as some pathetic inferior copy of a skill he had mastered. He switched to the next picture. Another lacrosse shot, his face visible this time, the eyes on fire with intent, the expression determined, sweat rolling down his cheeks. The sweat of legitimate physical effort. The only sweat of effort he ran into now was getting out of bed on bad days.

Other pictures of lacrosse. Two of him running. He looked at his right leg. Whole, perfect, vanished. Forever. He remembered the pounding joy of running, the even footfalls their own form of music.

Belle abruptly appeared in his lap with a low trill, having left the piano cushion. He pushed her off the stack of pictures and looked through them again. Gone. It was all gone. If only he could have taken physical wholeness then and put it with the slow mental healing now. He had never once in his life known it all together. He never would now due to a medical error. He suddenly realized with crushing weight that long before the infarction, he had been crippled, just as he was now. He could never truly be whole. Everything that a whole husband and father might have given to his family, they would never know, not in the past, not in the future. The pictures slipped from his fingers to the floor, and he felt the hot tear tracks down his face.

Get on with it. He had to face this, all of it, now. He had to get through it himself before showing his family the former version, even with his new realization just how crippled he had been even then. He still had to show them. The lesson for Rachel would still apply, hopefully relieving her frustrations with the music that eluded her. He bent to pick up the pictures, feeling his leg stab at the effort of leaning over. Setting them on the coffee table, he stood and limped slowly to the TV with the DVD in his free hand. He popped it in, removing the Disney movie they had watched with the girls earlier tonight. Back to the couch with the remote, and he cued up the movie of the past.

Before he was five minutes into it, he had to hit stop. The DVD player returned to the blank blue screen, waiting for his next command, but the remote had joined the pictures on the coffee table, and House wasn't even looking at the screen anymore. He buried his head in his hands, feeling the silent sobs shaking him deeply as they had after his surgery, when he had sent Stacy and everyone else from the room and had wept in wrenching solitude. Belle nosed into his lap, trying to help, and he seized the cat, getting her fur damp but not much else. He still felt so horribly alone. Jensen had been right. This was a mistake, and whether he could analyze her reaction or not, he needed her.

_Just a weakling_, John reminded him. His father had been there in the background for quite a while, but the volume was abruptly turned up, ringing in his ears.

House tried to get up and flee to safe harbor with her, tripped on his shaky legs, and fell, his cane landing several feet away out of reach. He called her instead, but his throat was closed off with tears, and he couldn't marshal much more volume than a mouse. "Lisa." That would never make it clear down the hall, through the closed bedroom door, and through the curtain of sleep. John was laughing at him. He closed his eyes in helpless frustration, huddled on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, the silent sobs wrenching his whole body. A concerned Belle was next to him, but she wasn't enough right now. He needed Lisa. But he didn't think he had the strength to get up, retrieve the cane, and limp through the storm to her. He tried again after a minute, hopelessly, to call her. He didn't care how pathetic he looked right now or how crippled she thought he was. Even if she thought less of him, no matter what his leg really meant to her, it was all irrelevant. He still needed her right now. "Lisa."

Then, suddenly, miraculously, she was there. Not questioning, not analyzing, just in pure relief, he buried himself against her warm presence and let the tears come.


	67. Chapter 67

A/N: Hi, readers. Sorry for the delay on this chapter. For a good time, I don't recommend roof problems combined with rain.

I think there is either one longish chapter or two short chapters left in this story. We'll see how it falls out. Thanks to all my readers for taking the journey with me.

(H/C)

Cuddy's first thought on entering the living room was that he had fallen and hurt himself, but even as she rushed to his side, she realized more was going on. He was crying desperately, almost silently, as she had seen him long ago through the glass wall of the room after his leg surgery. She had never seen that same silent reaction to that extent since in him, and even that time after the surgery, she had recognized that it was mental pain, not physical, that was rending his soul. Falling and hurting himself merely physically would never do this. And why was he up in here in the first place rather than in bed?

"Greg." She dropped to her knees beside him. He grabbed her like a life preserver, holding on fiercely, burying his face in her chest. Cuddy ran soothing hands over his back. "It's okay, Greg. I'm right here. It's okay." He seemed utterly broken in her arms, but there was also an impression of a wall that had come down, of a previous obstacle removed, changing the view. He was turning toward her, not away, and he had called her, even if barely audibly. In fact, he had called her twice. She was sure that must have been what woke her up.

Even tears of utter desperation and brokenness are temporary, especially once shared, and gradually he calmed down, the heart-wrenching sobs stilling. He didn't move away even now, though, quiet in her embrace, his face still hiding against her. She looked around the room for clues while waiting for him to be ready to speak. The TV was on, the DVD player stopped. He had been watching a movie? Alone in the middle of the night? She spotted the remote next, on the coffee table. Next to it was a stack of pictures, and beside those was Blythe's opened envelope. Whatever that was, he had opened it alone tonight, and it had been devastating to him. The familiar anger against Blythe surged up. Cuddy leaned over a bit, trying to see the pictures, but they were jumbled, as if the stack had been dropped and then scooped up in a hurry, and they were also, whether intentionally or not, turned face down.

"You heard me." It was the first statement he had made beyond that horribly weak and shaky call of her name.

Her attention refocused on him immediately. Blythe's package could wait a few minutes. "Yes. You woke me up saying my name the first time."

He shook his head, still buried in her robe. "I wasn't strong enough to."

"Yes, you were. I heard you. Twice, right? A few minutes apart? You woke me up, and I was almost down the hall when you called me again."

His arms tightened around her. "Can't believe you heard me."

"Believe it, Greg. I'll always hear you when you need me. Just call me. I'm here." She looked around the setting again. "We are going to talk through this, but would you mind if we did it on the couch instead of in the floor?"

He pulled away, carefully studying her face for any trace of pity, but he couldn't find one. Cuddy scrambled up to her feet, careful to keep some contact, which he seemed to need so much right now. "Come on, Greg. Up." Hands on his arms, she supported him, providing a steady brace as he pulled himself up with a flinch. He sat down on the couch, and Cuddy sat down next to him. Belle immediately jumped up on the other side, rubbing against him, her golden eyes concerned. "Better now?" Cuddy asked. He nodded, and she could tell he was surveying the shattered wall of whatever at his feet. He wasn't rebuilding it, at least, just inspecting its rubble. She gave him a minute, then prompted gently. "Greg, what is going on? What were you doing out here by yourself?"

He looked at the envelope. "I wanted to deal with Mom's package alone first. Me tonight, you tomorrow night." He trembled as if a gust of cold wind had swept through the living room, and he moved a little closer to her. "I couldn't take it. Shouldn't have tried that. Jensen warned me."

"What is it?" She looked back at the pictures, at the paused TV.

He started to reach for the pictures, then hesitated, obviously debating whether to tell her first or watch her while she looked at them. To her surprise, he leaned back, choosing to tell her. "Old pictures of me doing sports. Running. Pictures from before. . ." He ran a hand down his leg. "And a DVD of part of an old lacrosse game. It's - it's the person I used to be."

Cuddy didn't even look toward the stacks, focused fully on him right then. "Blythe decided to send you _that_ for your birthday?" She didn't try to hide the fury in her tone.

He shook his head. "It wasn't a present; I asked her to. It wasn't her idea. I asked her Saturday night to send them." He cast a regretful look at the Express Mail envelope. "I _didn't_ ask her to send them like that; the notes and urgency were her contribution."

She was starting to understand the shock to him of being handed that envelope in public in the hospital when he hadn't expected it yet. "Why did you want them, Greg?"

He gave a deep sigh. "Rachel."

"Rachel?" She was floundering, missing the connection.

"You gave me the idea. Well, you and then the President and Jensen. Three-stage idea. You started it, though. You said that the piano is what she associates with me, and if she saw me doing something else well, something she could relate to better, she'd switch over from music."

With her own click of mental puzzle pieces falling into place, she suddenly understood. "Oh, Greg. That's a fantastic idea. Running, jumping; I can see her a lot more into things like that than the piano." She leaned over to kiss him deeply. "And for you to ask for them, for her sake . . . you are a _wonderful_ father, Greg. That's one of the most loving ideas I've ever heard. It's perfect."

He studied her expression, but there were no regrets in either her face or her tone. "You think it will work?"

"Yes, I do." She frowned suddenly, switching mentally from Rachel back to tonight. "But why the hell were you opening it in here all alone? I understand wanting to see it yourself first before talking to Rachel, to get through the initial storm without her watching so you wouldn't distract from your point, but you shouldn't have done it alone. I'm _here_, Greg."

He looked away. "That's what Jensen said," he mumbled. "But . . ."

"But what?" She felt the guilt surge back in. "This is about last week, isn't it? Greg, I know I said some awful things last week, but. . ." She broke off in silence as he shook his head.

"Not about last week. It's about the last _decade_. I . . ." He looked back at her suddenly, his eyes piercing, pinning her under the mental microscope. "Do you ever regret it, Lisa?"

"Your leg? In a way. I regret the pain for you, and the stupid mistakes that never should have been made in the first place."

"But do you. . ." He looked at the blank screen on the TV, then at her. "Do you ever wish you could . . . have _him_ . . . instead?" His voice got progressively softer all through that question, almost a whisper at the end.

She stared at him. "Him instead . . . Greg, this isn't two different people. He is _you_. You are him. Your leg doesn't define your past any more than it defines your present. I _have _you. The you in those pictures, and the you right here. I have it all. And no, I'd never want anybody else. No regrets. Not about you. I just wish you weren't in pain, but Greg, other than that, it truly doesn't matter."

It truly doesn't matter. He wrote that down as if on a mental whiteboard and studied it, trying to decide if it was a symptom or a confirmed diagnosis. Hard to believe in that as the final answer. While he was thinking, Cuddy leaned over to kiss him again. "Greg, I have _no_ regrets about choosing you. None. I'd do it again today. And if I had the chance twenty years ago, I'd do it then without wasting all that lost time. Even if I knew then that you would become disabled in the future, I'd choose you with my eyes wide open." She lost track in the middle of her own reassurance. "No, that's not quite right. If I knew back then what was going to happen, I'd make sure the medical mistakes weren't made in the first place. But just to spare you the pain, not to spare me some kind of burden. I love you, Greg. I love _you_. The you in those pictures, and the you right here; it's the same person."

He looked at her, gauging sincerity, then abruptly picked up the stack of pictures and offered it to her. She turned them over and started looking at them, one by one. He was already tensing back up with the first ones, the deep feeling of loss springing back up, of having part of his life ripped away from him. _This is grief_, he realized suddenly. Like sitting there on his motorcycle in the cemetery a week ago, looking at the tombstones. Cuddy pulled him more tightly to her. "Look, Greg," she said. She was at the closeup lacrosse shot, the one that showed his face. "That expression. That intensity. That's exactly what your eyes look like on a case. It's still you, Greg. This is the man I married." She moved on to the next shot. Running. She felt her own tears welling up and pushed them back, afraid he would misinterpret sorrow as regret. "You still have his body. I'd know it anywhere, not just from your leg. You're still gorgeous. And actually, I can almost see a bit of Rachel in that shot."

Logic surged in against emotion. "Now _that_ makes no sense," he protested. "There's no biological relationship."

"I can still see her. I can't believe I never thought of this. You're right, Greg; I can really see her as a track star in school several years down the road. That's even something she'll have the edge with on Abby."

He fired up defensively. "Abby's getting stronger all the time."

"Yes, she is. But I still think Rachel will be faster, even when Abby has caught up to her age group."

He tilted his head, considering. "Maybe. If Abby ever gets into running, she'd be something like the mile, where there's strategy and control and pacing to it. Rachel is the 100-yard dash."

"Then again, maybe something like that could help Rachel. Teach her more discipline and patience, make her a little steadier. Sports have done that for a lot of people."

He nodded. "Could be." He couldn't believe they were sitting here having this discussion, so easily, so uninhibited. Did it truly not matter to her? His earlier thought returned, and she looked over at him immediately.

"What?"

"_What _what?"

"I heard that thought, Greg. Not enough to understand it, but it's one you don't need to be having alone. What are you thinking?"

"I wish you - and the girls - could have known me whole. I never thought of it until tonight, but I've always been crippled, even then. Always will be. One way or another."

She pulled him over to her. "You're _not_ crippled, Greg. Not then, not now. You have wounds, and they've left scars, and yes, I wish the pain of all sorts hadn't happened, for your sake. But the scars can't take anything away from who you are. I've got a whopping big scar clear across my abdomen now; is _that_ what you think of when you look at me?"

"Of _course_ not. It doesn't . . ." He broke off, seeing the trap.

"Right. It doesn't matter." She leaned it, kissing him for emphasis. "It. Doesn't. Matter. Get it?"

His humorous side suddenly peeked out from behind the intense emotions. "I'm not sure I have it yet. Maybe we'd better practice some more. This reconditioning takes time, you know."

Her kiss in reply heated up to the point that Belle stood up, annoyed at the shifting action, hissed, and jumped down. Neither of them noticed. Finally they broke apart. "But if - if it were two different people somehow," Cuddy continued. "Which it _isn't_, understand. But if it were, maybe like Jensen and Mark, two different people who look alike. If I did somehow have a choice between you now and the person in those pictures who just happened to look like you and could do lacrosse, I'd pick you now. Not him."

He relaxed a little, though the core of tension just from emotional overload on this night was still there. He picked up the remote and handed it to her. "I couldn't watch it alone," he said. "That's when I totally lost it. I really need to before I show it to Rachel; I won't help her much by breaking down in the middle of it."

"Need to watch it, yes, but not alone." She started over from the beginning.

Even with decades-old video technology, this had a far greater impact than the pictures. Actually seeing the grace, the coordination, the way he had moved on the field had him in tears again before the video was a few minutes old. Her own tears joined his, and they watched it together, side by side, holding each other tightly. This time, he at least made it through. Again. Again. Four times they watched it, and House felt the oddest sense of release at the same time along with the loss. Was this how people felt when, after a funeral, the grave was closed, and they turned away? It still hurt horribly, but having her with him made such a difference. He was not alone. Having her there, even crying along with him, made it bearable.

She stood up after the video ended the final time, and he reached for her in protest, acutely feeling her presence move away. "Just a minute, Greg. I'll be back." She walked over to the desk and retrieved her laptop, then sat back down with a few disks labeled pictures. He gave a groan. "I know; you hate looking at pictures. But you broke your own practice tonight, so I'm just following your lead. I want to show you some things." She put in the first one, sorting through until she found what she was looking for.

House in the rocking chair, holding Abby. This was shortly after she had been brought home, and the love and pride in his face was obvious, but Cuddy's favorite thing about this picture was that somehow, even given Abby's age, the familiar expression was there as she looked back at him. "Greg, look at that. No, not just Abby; look at _you_. And tell me, what's wrong with this picture? Where does this moment fail?"

He studied it. "Nothing's wrong," he said finally.

"Exactly. That's who you are. That's the father you are. You're not crippled as a father."

"But I can't . . ."

She leaned over with a reminder. "It doesn't matter." He was smiling by the time they parted. She flipped through the index until she found another sequence she wanted, then called those up one by one. House and Rachel building a snowman, both of them actively participating. "Look at these, Greg. Look at Rachel's expression and then at yours. What's missing here? What's incomplete? What else does she want at that moment?"

"Nothing," he admitted.

She found one of her favorites, one that she actually had printed off as an enlargement and framed on the wall of their living room. House playing the piano at their wedding, a close-up shot that the photographer had caught perfectly. House's head was up, and although Cuddy wasn't visible in this shot, he knew that what he was looking at was her, walking down the aisle toward him. Cuddy picked up one of Blythe's pictures and held it alongside the laptop. Anyone would have recognized the similarity, although separated by time. "This is _you_, Greg. I love you. Loved you then, love you even more now."

He reached out for the laptop, running a few forward since she was on the wedding disk. "That's my favorite." It was, of course, the kiss under the canopy. "See, I _have_ looked at them."

"Not that often." She studied the shot herself with a smile. "I like that one, too, though. I think you need to look at them more. Pictures of us, of the family. There's nothing wrong with us, Greg. We're not being short-changed." She turned back to face him. "And that is a fantastic idea with Rachel. I'm proud of you for having the strength to do that for our daughter."

The clock chimed, and they automatically counted. House shook his head. "It is not 4:00 a.m."

Cuddy looked at the clock for confirmation. "Wow. I didn't even hear it the last few times." They had been in here for hours.

"Well, so much for sleep tonight."

She shook her head. "No, that's not a good idea. We're _both_ still too tired from last week to run without any. We weren't caught up in the first place. But Greg, I'm glad I was out here with you instead of asleep."

"So am I, even if it didn't start like that."

She closed the laptop and stood up. "I'm calling both of us into work this morning. We won't go in until noon. That way, we can get some sleep, and once the girls wake up, I'll get up for just a little and call Marina. She can take them to her place."

"I've got a case," House protested.

"You said last night at dinner that he wasn't critical."

"No, but he's interesting."

"He'll be even more interesting after some sleep. Seriously, Greg, we both need this; we're still not recovered physically from last week. And take the sleeping pill this time; I know you must have just pretended earlier." He looked away without confirming that and started gathering Blythe's pictures, sliding them back into the envelope. "One more thing before we go to bed, Greg."

"What's that?" He yawned, suddenly feeling exhausted, but also cleansed in a way. The pain in his leg was still there, and the regret over it was still there, as well as some doubts. He knew, even if he had been joking earlier, that it would take some time to process this and recondition it. Jensen had taught him that; not much in this mental healing went quickly. Still, tonight was a huge start, and he felt a little like a landscape after rain, washed and refreshed.

"Would you play the serenade for me?" Cuddy asked.

He stood up and realized his cane was still halfway across the room in the floor. She retrieved it and handed it to him, and he limped over to the piano, then sat down. She busied herself with ejecting the DVD and putting it back in Blythe's envelope, not watching his stride - except for out of the corner of her eye. He waited until she sat down again facing him, and then he began. The music sang, the harmony and dissonances and final resolution into harmony again retelling their story, and as in the picture, he was looking straight at her, not at the keys. He finished, and they absorbed the silence together for a minute, louder than words would have been.

Finally, he stood up again, and she came to her feet. He took two steps away from the piano before he felt rather than saw the motion behind him, then turned to see Belle just arranging herself in the precise middle of the cushion. She yawned and blinked up at him. He grinned. "I guess we're going to have to keep that thing and use it," he said. "Damn cat would sulk if we put it away."

Cuddy smiled. "Come on, Greg. Let's go to bed." He tucked Blythe's envelope into the desk. Then Cuddy switched off the light, and they walked together to the bedroom, feeling the approaching dawn outside but not needing to wait to see it to believe. At this moment, seeing each other was enough.


	68. Chapter 68

A/N: Short update today. Only one more chapter left, readers. Thanks so much for all the reviews on this latest rollercoaster ride. Next up is Verdict, but it isn't quite ready yet, so you'll have to wait. It's much shorter but no less packed emotionally. I also am working mentally on a one-shot House fic that has nothing to do with Pranks, plus possible early glimmerings of another long Pranks story down the road. Will have to see how that develops; too early to say yet. I also got an idea from a review on the last chapter that my muse abruptly grabbed onto, and that will be a one-shot, most likely after Verdict. So there are other things on the horizon. Until then, patience is a virtue, and thanks again for joining me in this one. I'll most likely get up the final chapter of Three Cases this weekend.

(H/C)

After a quick conference up in Diagnostics, Foreman and Kutner divided duties Wednesday morning on the recovering patients, both of those being high profile either emotionally or politically and still needing followup, while Taub went to collect the latest on their new patient, noncritical but interesting. Mark had just finished breakfast when Foreman came in, and he immediately tried to nail the neurologist down. "So, when can I get out of here?"

"When they say you can," Pam stressed. "Not before, either."

"You'd said he told you maybe Wednesday. It's now Wednesday."

Foreman was looking through the chart notes from overnight by the nurses. "Things are improving, but I'd still like to monitor you a little longer. Maybe late this afternoon or tomorrow morning."

Mark shook his head. "No, this has gone on long enough."

"Want us to call the rest of the family and get their vote on leaving AMA?" Jensen asked pointedly.

Mark sighed. "Where's Dr. House? I want to talk to him; he's the one who had mentioned Wednesday."

"We had a message that he won't be in today until this afternoon. I'm sure he'll come see you himself then."

Jensen straightened up, his attention immediately dividing as he tried to analyze that from all sides and decide whether it was positive or negative. Either House had been up all night having a private train wreck and was too worn out to come in before getting some sleep, or House and Cuddy had been up together, though still an all-night emotional session, and both were too worn out to come in before getting some sleep. Jensen had been quite worried about House last night. He'd had a feeling the other man was going to be stubborn instead of reasonable. But either way, calling in, which could only have been Cuddy's firmly enforced choice, not his, indicated that she knew now. The psychiatrist just hoped all of her knowledge hadn't come after the fact. Mark looked over at him, then back at Foreman. "I'm feeling a lot better. Really."

"Good." Foreman made a note. "But there's no way I'm releasing you until House clears it. If you want to leave now, it's AMA."

"He's not leaving AMA," Pam stated firmly. "Why don't you and Michael play another few rounds of chess, Mark?"

"That's a great idea. I'll tell House you want to see him, soon as I see him myself, but the message from his wife said not to call this morning." Foreman left the room.

Mark sighed again and looked at the chess board, resigning himself to a few more hours of captivity, and Pam removed his breakfast tray and set up the chess set on the table instead. "Michael?" she asked. The psychiatrist was staring at the far wall.

Jensen jumped and focused. "Right." He switched chairs with Pam, getting closer to his brother, and tried to make himself pay attention to the game.

(H/C)

House arrived at about 1:00. Mark had taken a nap for the rest of the morning after a couple of rounds of chess, and Pam, realizing that Jensen was off his game but not quite understanding why, had suggested that the psychiatrist give himself a break for a little while and take a walk. Jensen did just that, putting in several brisk laps of the nearby park and reminding himself that whatever had happened last night, Cuddy was dealing with it now. He felt less restless, though still concerned, when he got back to Mark's room to wait. Mark was wide awake and ready to launch a full-scale assault on House's position by the time the diagnostician finally arrived after lunch. House barely made it through the door before the first volley was fired.

"It's Wednesday now. You _told _them that . . ."

House interrupted him. "Get up." Mark broke off, startled. He hadn't expected to win that easily. On second thought, looking at House's eyes, maybe he hadn't won yet, but it was at least a step in the right direction. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up and then standing, aware with a flash of impatience that he had to do it slowly. House noted and weighed every movement. "Okay, go take a few laps of this floor, and I want to check your heart after every one of them. And take somebody with you." Jensen took a half step back, silently withdrawing himself from the candidacy, and Pam quickly joined her husband, keeping a worried eye on him. Jensen and House trailed them to the door and stopped in it, watching as husband and wife set off on a somewhat-jerky tour of the cardiac floor. Mark was trying to walk at a normal speed and kept having to slow down again after a few steps. Jensen couldn't help chuckling watching him.

House nodded. "I knew he'd do that. Serves our purpose, though. I need to know what happens when he pushes himself." He glanced over at Jensen, then quickly resumed watching his patient. "How is he really feeling?"

"A lot better but not close to 100%. He still gets worn out doing anything at all. He's about to go stir crazy, though; I think he'd be already gone, hospital gown and all, if we weren't right on top of him every minute."

House studied Mark, collecting all data and analyzing it. "He's going to be okay. You do realize it's going to be a few weeks before he's able to go back to work."

"That's a challenge, but Pam will have the kids as allies, and they can guilt trip him. I'd stay with him myself, but he's already feeling guilty for disrupting my practice." His voice trailed off a little on the mention of his practice.

House waited, but Jensen didn't question him, making it his choice. Impressive. House considered spinning it out more before deciding to have mercy on the other man's curiosity. "Opened the package last night," House said, dropping his voice.

"Alone?" Jensen jumped on the topic with both feet once it was brought up, looking at House as much as his brother now. "You tried it alone, didn't you?"

House slowly nodded. "Didn't work." That was obviously an understatement, but Jensen knew that as well as he did. "She _heard_ me, though. When I couldn't take it, I called her, and she heard me and came." He paused to marvel again at that fact. How on earth had she heard his weak, pathetic call clear across the house, through the door, and through sleep?

Mark and Pam were approaching again down the hall, and House limped out a few steps to pickpocket a passing nurse, hooking her stethoscope. She sighed but didn't look surprised, simply waiting to one side. Mark stopped in front of them, definitely drooping more than he had been at the beginning of that lap, and House carefully listened to his heart. The whole Jensen clan waited eagerly for a verdict, and House pulled out the ear buds and stepped back. "Take another lap." Pam looked worried, knowing that one had been pushing her husband's limited strength right now, but Mark immediately turned and headed off, and she hurried to catch him. House ceremoniously handed the stethoscope back to the nurse. "I believe you dropped this. Drop it again in a few minutes, would you? And until then, get lost." Jensen grinned, and the nurse rolled her eyes and resumed her original errand.

House looked back over to Jensen, returning softly to the former topic. "We went through it all together. We were up all night. That's why I wasn't in this morning; _she_ insisted."

"She was right," Jensen replied. "I'm glad she joined you." He didn't add in this super-compressed session that she should have been there already. House knew he'd made a mistake; rubbing his nose in it would only get him defensive.

House heard the thought and deflected. "I wouldn't want you to run out of work, you know. Not that there's much danger of that with me."

"We can still be friends even when the appointments are cut back," Jensen stated, and House felt the usual odd mix of pleasure and confusion when he was called a friend. There had been so few of those in his life. Wilson, definitely, but he had in effect stacked the cards with Wilson in the first place, literally bailing him out. Their relationship had developed from there, but it had begun with House choosing to know the other man better, not with Wilson voluntarily choosing him. Jensen had no initial obligation owed beyond the professional, for which he was paid and had definitely earned it. House had been a lot of hassle as a patient. But even with events with Jensen's family since then, there wasn't the sense of a score card, and Jensen had bewilderingly liked him long before Cathy got sick. When Jensen called him a friend, he meant it, no strings or submeanings attached.

House ultimately filed that thought for emotional differential later. "Still, I doubt we're going to be finished professionally any time soon."

"No, we aren't," Jensen agreed. "So are you showing Rachel tonight?"

"Yes." The insecurities pushed back in, and he hoped again that his girls wouldn't think less of him. "Abby, too, of course, although the object lesson is more for Rachel right now."

"It will be okay, Dr. House." Mark was coming back, his strides definitely dragging now, and nothing more was said as they watched his approach. The nurse from before materialized conveniently and handed House the stethoscope herself as Mark stopped in front of them. Pam was sending off far-from-subliminal messages that this test needed to be stopped right now, not continued for another lap. Everybody waited as House checked his patient over, taking his time with it. Finally, he took off the stethoscope and returned it to the nurse.

"I'm _fine_ now," Mark insisted. His posture gave everyone the lie.

House studied him. He really did sympathize with Mark, remembering his own 3-week hospitalization after the car accident. He had been ready to dig an escape tunnel under the bed by the end of that. "IF you stay stable for the rest of this afternoon," he stated, "I'll discharge you about 5:00, last thing before I leave. Go home, take it easy, and be sure you take the antibiotics, every last one of them, unless you want to be back here. And buy some bug repellent."

Pam smiled, and Mark relaxed, seeing freedom on the horizon. "Come on, Mark," she said, urging him back toward the bed in the meantime. He didn't resist. House and Jensen stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway, watching them as Mark climbed back into bed with some assistance from his wife.

"Well, got to go save the next contestant," House said briskly, turning away. "I'll be back around 5:00."

Jensen stopped him with a touch on the arm. "Thank you, Dr. House," he said softly.

House met his eyes and for once didn't deflect. "You're welcome."


	69. Chapter 69

The final chapter. Thanks for the reviews. Sorry I didn't get it up earlier, but life was hectic with a concert this weekend. Coming soon: Verdict, in which the trial of Patrick Chandler takes a very unexpected turn for our favorite doctor.

About House the show ending, I haven't watched myself since S6 and had had the show on "probation" since half of S5. Thus it isn't going to affect my writing plans at all, as someone worried. Since I haven't watched for a while, what they are doing currently didn't impact my stories for the last two seasons anyway. I have no idea of current story lines, and I've even quite a while ago stopped reading fic based on S7 or later because it's too much work to fill in background gaps (and admittedly because I hate unjustly criticizing an author for unbelievable plot elements when that author isn't the one who came up with them and was only borrowing from Shore and company). If I ever stop writing House stuff, it will be because my muse just chose to end it, nothing related to what's on TV or not at that moment.

About non Pranks stories, yes, there are plenty. Will be additional ones in the future, although I can't predict my muse at all, but at least one non-Pranks already is on the stove (maybe two, new idea this weekend, will see if/how it grows). Just look at my profile if you want to read other than this AU for a change. My personal favorites are Calling the Make-a-Wish Foundation, Smokin' Hot, and Help Yourself (my answer to Help Me). There are "good" Lucas stories (those were based on the show back when I was still watching), lots of H/C, a House/piano story without any "ship" at all, even a House/Wilson story, although only friendship, not slash. I just can't see those two together as a couple. And a "sci-fi" ish Foreman fic, if you want something really bizarre. Pranks was my first House story, and this universe will always be dear to me, but there have been other things along the way, too.

A presidential book recommendation for those fellow history buffs out there among the readers. _My Thirty Years Backstairs at the White House_ by Lillian Rogers Parks. Memoirs of a woman and her mother who were both maids at the White House, between them spanning 51 years and eight administrations, 1909 to 1960. All sorts of interesting presidential anecdotes from the perspective of house servants. I just finished reading this book this week, and it's great. I do love reading history - as long as it's interesting. And if a history book is not interesting, that is a fault of the author for writing it badly, because history itself is so dynamic and full of interesting people and plots that it's a ripe field for harvest. There's no excuse for making it dull.

Hope you've enjoyed Three Cases.

(H/C)

House solved his new case late that afternoon before discharging his other two patients, but the warm satisfaction of a puzzle solved was fleeting. The closer he came to home, the more he was tied in knots. That, of course, only made the leg raise the volume of its protests. He and Cuddy had driven in together after their morning nap and lunch, and now they stopped by Marina's house on the way home to collect the girls. Rachel bounded out to the car with her usual enthusiasm, scampering ahead of her parents. House watched her strides, assessing. Yes, he definitely saw Rachel doing something in track in the future, much more than he saw her playing the piano. Tonight was the right move for his daughter's sake. He just hoped she wouldn't be too disappointed at how far he'd fallen.

Cuddy had stopped to thank Marina, and she came up behind him with Abby as he was buckling Rachel into her car seat. Her hand on his arm made him jump slightly, and she wished she'd spoken first. "It will be okay, Greg," she assured him very softly.

"I hope," he replied, still facing away from her, but at least he didn't deflect her support and refuse to approach the topic at all. He wasn't retreating from her touch, either; she had simply startled him a moment ago. She hoped herself that last night had done some good between them far beyond merely setting the stage to reveal his athletic past to Rachel.

She kissed him briefly, and Abby, in her arms, took the opportunity to give him a hug herself, even though she had no idea what they were talking about. He smiled at the multi-armed embrace from his girls.

Rachel, whose patience with car seat confinement was never long anyway, banged on the seat in annoyance at this waste of time. "No kissing. Go home, NOW!"

They split apart, laughing. "Okay, Rachel, we're about to leave, soon as Abby's buckled in," House said. Cuddy was already heading around the car to reach the other back door and the other car seat. House got in front on the passenger's side and sat there waiting, breathing deeply, one hand unconsciously massaging his leg. Cuddy, once she got in, held his other hand throughout the short drive home, and he didn't pull away.

Once they were home, Cuddy suggested ordering pizza, knowing that House was keyed up and thinking he might eat more of that than a "healthy" meal. Rachel was enthusiastic in her approval, and Cuddy picked up the phone to call for delivery. House wandered over to the piano, looking at the gleaming surfaces, the black and white keys. Music had always been there. That wasn't a substitute for athletics; even in childhood, he had loved music. That had been the one area where Blythe stood up for him and challenged John. He ran a hand along the instrument, wishing that Rachel could actually know this, too, that a substitute weren't required.

"Play, Dada!" Rachel bounced up to him, and he gave her a wistful smile.

"Not tonight, Rachel. Tonight, we . . . we have a special movie."

"Yay!" She raced off, doing laps of the living room, and he noted the ease with which she dropped the musical request. Hopefully Cuddy was right and she would accept substitution for a House-like activity. The realization that she _did_ want to be like him was a marvel, something he would have to mine and analyze slowly. But tonight, he had to get through the pictures and DVD while focusing just on her. He turned away from the piano, then stopped with a grin. White cat hair liberally sprinkled the black cushion.

Cuddy came up beside him, speaking first that time, and he leaned into her embrace. "About 30 minutes, they said." She noticed the cat hair herself; he felt her tense up.

"That's enough time for a quick vacuuming if you want, Lisa."

She wrestled with temptation and won. He needed her at the moment more than the cushion did. "Not right now, Greg." She kissed him again. Abby tugged at his good leg, and he picked her up, including her in a group hug. His family.

Rachel stopped in front of the TV. "Watch a movie now?"

"No, not yet. We need to eat first. Wouldn't want to stop in the middle of it." Nevertheless, he walked over and grabbed the remote, turning the TV on. Maybe there was something worth watching while waiting for the pizza.

The President immediately appeared on the screen as footage of him being wheeled out of PPTH was played on the nightly news. ". . . discharged this afternoon," the anchor was saying, "and while he will be in outpatient rehab and physical therapy for a while, he should be able to continue his administrative duties without interruption. The President was upbeat and optimistic about the future and had some inspiring comments as he left the hospital."

The screen jumped to a close-up during the brief press conference in the lobby of PPTH. "I must also say that this minor setback has given me even deeper appreciation for the far greater disabilities faced by the true heroes, those men and women who serve our country in the Armed Forces." The delivery was perfect, the voice sincere, the eyes steady. House snorted.

"He's _acting_. Those aren't even his words, and he certainly didn't agree with them. I walked in on a rehearsal with the speech-writer yesterday."

"Shhh." Cuddy held out a hand, having heard her husband's name underneath his rant.

". . . truly is a great doctor. I had heard of his reputation, of course, for seeing what others cannot, but I now can confirm personally that that reputation is fully earned. Again, my thanks to Dr. House and the staff at Princeton-Plainsboro."

House rolled his eyes. "I'll bet the speech-writer wrote that, too."

Cuddy was lost in her own surge of pride. It didn't matter to her _who_ had written the words; they were the truth. She reached for him again. "The speech-writer didn't write these, okay? I'm _proud_ of you for last week. Medically and - and otherwise. You did well." She kissed him, and it took him a few stunned seconds to start to respond. Another small knot from last week began to untie itself, some of the sting going out of the memory of "I'm disappointed in you." They couldn't get too much into a kiss in front of the girls, but House wasn't thinking about the President, at least, when they broke away.

Rachel, meanwhile, had walked up to the TV and was looking at it accusingly. "No!" she scolded.

"Think the news is boring, do you? Actually, I agree." House grabbed the remote. "Let's see what else we can find." He browsed through the channels and finally came across a nature program. He and Cuddy sat on the couch, with both girls and ultimately the cat joining them, as they waited for the pizza. Rachel's attention was held by the program, but Abby gave a look back at him a few times, sensing how tense he was tonight. Had to be careful around this one, he reminded himself. She saw too much. But unlike Rachel, she had the gift. Warm pride blazed through him. Abby did have the talent for music. He was looking forward to her future.

The pizza arrived, and they ate, House choking down a few slices. They were down to mere minutes now. The clock was ticking. "Don't forget to take your pills," Cuddy said softly. That was routine with meals, and the girls didn't think anything of it, but he looked at her, hearing the silent suggestion in her voice. Part of him resented it, but a larger part was analyzing her posture and her voice, searching for any judgment or disappointment and finding none. He took out his pill bottles and sorted out a full round of pain pills, plus the Ativan. One gulp, and it was gone. She reached over and squeezed his hand, her eyes reassuring him. _It doesn't matter._

Whether it did or not, he was about to find out. He stood up. "I'm going through the bathroom before we get started."

"Good idea. Do you need to go, Rachel?" He heard Cuddy put the pizza box away as he limped out of the room. He went back to their own private bathroom off the bedroom, not the larger one in the hall, and he picked up a heat patch out of the nightstand. As long as he was relying on chemical and outside assistance for this conversation, he might as well add some more. He stuck the heat patch in place, used the facilities as an afterthought, then took a deep breath and walked down the hall.

Abby was in the living room alone, Cuddy and Rachel obviously in the main bathroom. She walked over and hugged his leg. "Okay?" she asked, a small furrow of concern between her eyes.

He picked her up, hugging her tightly. "I'm okay, Abby." He walked over to the desk and removed Blythe's envelope. The notes jumped out at him again but in a different sense this time. Urgent. Handle with Care. Fragile. Very Important.

He hoped his care tonight would be enough when opening this can of worms with his girls. The topic was indeed fragile. But at least he didn't have to do it alone; Cuddy would be there.

She came back down the hall with Rachel, and House sat down on the couch, still holding Abby. "Come on, let's all sit down."

Rachel looked at the TV, and House grabbed the remote and switched it off. "You said movie," she protested.

Cuddy stepped in. "In a little while. It's a very special movie. But first, we have a few things to show you. Come on, Rachel." Cuddy had sat down right next to House, so close their bodies were firmly touching, feeling the connection. Rachel climbed into her lap and finally noticed the envelope which Abby was already fingering curiously.

House took out the stack, setting the DVD on the coffee table and then flipping the pictures upside down, forcing the girls to see them one at a time. He took the first off the pile. It was the close-up lacrosse shot, his eyes and intensity of purpose clearly visible. He held it out where they all could see, and Cuddy slid her right arm around his shoulders, pulling him even closer.

Rachel looked at the picture, puzzled, then suddenly got it. "Dada?" she asked, with a slight questioning rise at the end. He looked _different_, but she knew those eyes.

House stared at her. He had never expected her to guess his identity on seeing something as foreign as him doing sports.

"Yes." Cuddy smoothly took up the reins of the conversation. "This is your father when he was a lot younger."

Rachel studied it, fascinated. "Like me?"

House chuckled in spite of the tension. "Not that much younger. I was about 17." The age had no meaning for her. She looked at the shot more, and House kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Didn't she _get_ it? Still, the question never came. Maybe it was because this was a close-up. You could see the game in the background, but the whole focus was his face. He tried the next picture. Ah, yes, that was the lacrosse shot with him leaping for the ball. He offered that one and waited.

Rachel looked at it. "Dada." The identification was much more confident this time. She reached out to trace his image, then frowned. Ah, there it was. House waited for her to comment that he couldn't do things like this anymore. "Dropped the cane?"

He couldn't help a short laugh there. The whole idea of playing lacrosse with a cane, dropping it for jumps and then picking it back up, was ludicrous. "No, Rachel. I . . ." He trailed off, and Cuddy gave him a reassuring squeeze with her arm around his shoulders. She stepped in unerringly.

"No, Rachel. He didn't have the cane then. This was before his leg got sick."

His daughter accepted this and nodded wisely. "Before." She looked at it, then at the stack. "Nother picture?"

House was getting puzzled. When was she going to make a point of the fact that he couldn't do things like this now? Cuddy bumped him, jostling him into action. "Get the next picture, Greg."

He slowly picked up the running shot. _Now_ she would understand. He held it out.

"Dada," Rachel cheerfully identified. She traced the legs. "Before got sick."

"Right," Cuddy agreed. "That was before his leg got sick."

"No cane." It was just an observation, not a judgment. She looked at the shot, then looked up at him. He cringed, waiting, and Cuddy squeezed his shoulder again. "You run fast?"

He blinked back sudden tears. "Yes, I could run fast." He went on to prompt her gently; the suspense was getting to him. "But I can't now. I can't do it anymore."

Rachel nodded again. "Leg got sick," she agreed, the pure simplicity of the statement striking him.

"She doesn't get it," he said very softly to Cuddy as both girls fingered the picture.

Cuddy fought back a sigh. "She gets it, Greg. _It doesn't matter_."

One by one, they went through the few remaining pictures. Rachel and Abby both were fascinated at this look into the past, but "before his leg got sick" was accepted so easily as an explanation that none of their questions after that involved his leg. Rachel wanted a ball like that. Abby was quieter but lovingly said, "Dada" at every shot. Both were rapt, Rachel actually sitting still, but it was the past that held their attention, not the leg, not the difference in abilities.

The stack was finally finished. House picked up the DVD, and Cuddy moved Rachel over and stood, taking it from him and going to the TV, saving him getting up. Rachel snuggled in next to him. "Nice pictures," she said approvingly. "Pictures of me?"

"We have plenty of you, Rachel. We'll look at them some other time."

"She looks at them a lot of times without you," Cuddy put in as she inserted the DVD. "She likes the snowman sequence best. You and her building it."

"Snowman!" Rachel was enthusiastic. She looked toward the front door but didn't move away from her father. "We make 'nother snowman."

House grinned. "That has to wait for winter, Rachel. There's no snow."

"Make snow," she requested, full of childhood confidence.

He shook his head. "I can't, Rachel. I can't do that." Her face fell. Of all things in this conversation, he had never expected her to be disappointed in him for the lack of snow in June. "Even if I could make snow, I can't make it get cold. The snow would melt as soon as it got out there. We'd just have a puddle."

"Like Frosty," she sighed, resigned for the moment. She straightened up as Cuddy came back. "Watch the movie now?"

"Right." House picked up the remote and hesitated. Cuddy gave him a minute, then reached over and hit play herself.

The game on the disc started. Blythe, who had been filming this, was definitely focused on House, making him the constant center of action. He watched his daughters, not the screen, waiting.

"This is your father playing lacrosse," Cuddy told them. "He played a lot of games when he was younger, before his leg got sick. He loved this game."

"You teach me, Dada," Rachel requested.

"I can't." She looked disappointed again. "I mean, I . . ." Wait a minute. The coach on the team had hardly been out there playing in each practice as a live example. He just had given criticism and instructions from the sidelines. "Maybe I could _tell_ you how someday. I could watch you and tell you what to do. But I can't run and jump like that now. I can't play."

"Okay." She accepted the deal.

More and more bewildered, House watched them watching the game. When it finally finished, Cuddy hit stop and looked at him, asking a silent question. He considered, then yielded the floor to her with a nod. He wasn't sure he was capable of actually saying it. "Rachel," she started, "we wanted you to see your father running and jumping like that. People have different things they are good at. They might have trouble with something, but another thing, they can do easily. We all have different areas we can do. And you . . ." She paused, considering. Should she bring up the music or just offer the other without it? She looked back at House for a vote. He sighed. Might as well get it all on the table tonight. "Playing the piano is hard for you," Cuddy said. She did _not_ mention Abby. Abby straightened up in House's arms, about to cast her vote for the piano herself, and he stilled her. She looked back up at him, and he put one finger across his lips. "But Rachel, you _can_ run and jump. You're very good at that."

Rachel broke out in a smile ear to ear, suddenly seeing it. "Like Dada."

"Exactly. He can't do that anymore, because his leg got sick, but he used to. He was good at it. You can be like him there."

House carefully spoke up. "Rachel, when I . . . when I see you running, it reminds me of what I used to do."

"I run for you," she suggested. "But you watch?"

"Of course I'll watch. When you get older and bigger, maybe you can even run in races. If you do, I'll make a movie of it for you, and we can watch that one."

She reached over to hug him. "I run for you." He clasped her tightly, feeling mingled relief with confusion. That was _it_? That was her response, just to "run for you." Was the conversation over that easily for the moment?

Rachel straightened up and looked at the DVD. "Watch it again. _Good_ movie."

Cuddy looked to him for permission (and a silent analysis of her own), then cued it up. "One more time, Rachel, but that will be enough for tonight. Then it's time for bed."

"No!"

The home movie started again, both of the girls watching just as closely as the first time. Cuddy leaned over to whisper in House's ear. "Greg, it doesn't matter. Really."

_It doesn't matter_. He looked at her, then back down at his daughters. He was afraid to believe, but they were too little to carry out an extended lie. Rachel would never be able to keep up a front, not for five minutes.

_It doesn't matter_.

Tentatively, as if stepping out onto a bridge over a chasm and testing its solidity with every stride, he sat back and watched the movie with his family.


End file.
